FROM 


STUDIO  TO  STAGE 

REMINISCENCES  OF 

WEEDON  GROSSMITH 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


o  o 


3- 


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in  2007  with  funding  from 

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I 


FROM  STUDIO  TO  STAGE 


/fy^s^^ 


FROM  STUDIO  TO  STAGE 

REMINISCENCES  OF 

WEEDON  GROSSMITH 

WRITTEN  BY  HIMSELF 


NEW  YORK:  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 
LONDON  :  JOHN  LANE  •  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 
TORONTO  :  BELL  &  COCKBURN  MCMXIII 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
John  Lane  Company 


THE   UNIVEMITY    PRESS,    CAMBRIDGE,    U.S.A. 


College 
Library 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 


When  I  began  this  little  book  it  was  from  a  few 
rough  notes  jotted  down  at  random,  sometimes  with  a 
view  to  an  incident  in  a  play,  or  to  enable  me  to 
remember  the  story  to  which  it  referred;  but  one  day 
it  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  a  few  of  my  reminis- 
cences might  be  somewhat  entertaining  to  my  friends 
and  also  to  the  Great  Public,  to  whom  I  owe  so 
much. 

I  have  simply  told  my  little  tales  as  they  occurred 
and  because,  as  one  incident  recalled  another,  it  has 
pleased  me  to  do  so.  Alas,  since  I  began  to  put  it  all 
down  how  many  dear  friends  have  gone !  The  word 
"  late  "  has  had  to  be  introduced  again  and  again. 

All  that  remains  for  me  is  to  hope  that  my  readers 

will 

"Be  to  my  virtues  very  kind, 
And  to  my  faults  a  little  blind." 

W.  G.  1912. 


1116477 


CONTENTS 

Chapter  Page 

I     Schooldays i 

II     Simpson's  School  in  Englands  Lane,  Hampstead  13 

III  Student  Days  and  Royal  Academy  Schools  .     .  27 

IV  My  First  Studio,  8  Fitzroy  Street       ....  36 

V     82  Gower  Street 50 

VI     Frank  Holl,  Royal  Academy.    Students'  Dinner 

and  Amateur  Theatricals 63 

VII  65  Harley  Street.     Debts  and  Difficulties   .     .  76 

VIII  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dobree 90 

IX  Fishing  Stories 102 

X  Bargain  Hunting 123 

XI     "Fast   Life   in   London."     The  Eighties  and 

Nineties 136 

XII     Cecil  Clay  makes  me  an  offer  to  go  on  the  Stage     151 

XIII  My  First  Appearance  in  London 163 

XIV  Henry  Irving 170 

XV  Under  the  Management  of  Richard  Mansfield, 
Kate  Vaughan,  Beerbohm  Tree,  and  Mrs. 
John  Wood.  Arthur  Pinero.  The  Old 
House  at  Canonbury 184 

XVI     The  Triple  Bill,  and  The  Crusaders,  by  Henry 

Arthur  Jones 203 

XVII  The  Guardsman,  by  J.  R.  Sims  and  Cecil  Ra- 
leigh. The  Amazons,  by  Arthur  Pinero. 
The  New  Boy,  by  Arthur  Law.  W.  S. 
Penley 212 


CONTENTS 

Chapter  Paci 

XVIII     Lord  Blyth's  Party  to  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

The  Savage  Club.     Arthur  Roberts      .     .     228 

XIX     Jack  Sheppard  and  Highwaymen    ....     243 

XX     The  Cockney  Sportsman.     Shooting  Stories  .     255 

XXI  Young  Mr.  Yarde.  The  Lady  of  Ostend. 
A  Cider  Evening  at  the  Beefsteak  Club. 
The  Relief  of  Mafeking.  The  Relief  of 
Ladysmith 262 

XXII     The  Night  of  the  Party 273 

XXIII  A  Drury  Lane  Drama 280 

XXIV  The  Duke  of  Killicrankie  and  The  Lady  of 

Leeds,  by  Captain  Robert  Marshall.  Frank 
Curzon.  The  Man  from  Blankley's.  Com- 
mand Performance  at  Sandringham.  The 
Van  Dyke  with  Sir  Herbert  Tree.  Mrs. 
Ponderbury's  Past.  Billy's  Bargain.  Mr. 
Preedy   and   The    Countess.     The  Early 

Worm,  and  Sir  Anthony 290 

XXV     Backers 304 

XXVI  Country    Visits.      Geo.    Grossmith.      Leslie 

Ward's  Evening  Dress.    The  Garrick  Club     323 

XXVII  Provincial  Towns.    Audiences.    Their  tastes. 

A  Gloomy  Hotel  Bedroom 334 

XXVIII  "Touring."  The  « Star."  Speeches,  unre- 
hearsed and  otherwise.  Musical  Comedy 
versus  Legitimate  ditto 337 

XXIX     Voyage  to  Montreal.     Hospitality  in  Canada. 

New  York.    John  Drew.    "  Baby  Mine  "     346 

XXX  Looking  back.  The  Old  Days  and  Cabbie 
and  his  Fares  and  Ways.  Spiritualism  and 
Spooks.     A  Strange  Occurrence.     How  I 

Saw  the  Boat  Race 350 

Index 363 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Weedon  Grossmith,  191 1 Frontispiece 

George    Grossmith,    Lecturer.      The    father    of 

Weedon To  face  p.  2 

Weedon  Grossmith.     A  Half  Hour's  Sketch  by 

Frank  Holl,  R.A "  32 

"  Wishes  and  Fishes " "  68 

"  The  New  Lord  of  the  Manor " "  70 

"  Such  is  Life " "  78 

The  Sluice  House  on  the  New  River,  Holloway,  N.  "  no 

Bargain-Hunting "  124 

Lord  Arthur  Pomeroy  in  "  The  Pantomime  Re- 
hearsal " "  152 

A  Welcome  Wire,  1888 "  170 

Weedon    Grossmith     as    Percy    Palfreyman    in 

"Wealth" "  184 

Mrs.  John  Wood "  188 

The  Garden  of  the  Old  House,  Canonbury  .  "  194 
Weedon  Grossmith  as  Joseph  Lebanon  in  "The 

Cabinet  Minister" "  196 

Joseph  Lebanon  in  "  The  Cabinet  Minister  "  .  "  198 
The  Original  Drawing  for  Lord  Tweenways  in 

"The  Amazon" "  218 

Weedon  Grossmith  as  "  The  New  Boy  "...  "  222 
Weedon  Grossmith  and  Kenneth  Douglas  in  "The 

New  Boy " "  222 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Wecdon  Grossmith  as  "  Hamlet  "    .                      To  fact  p.  224 

May  Lever  Palfrey  in  "  The  New  Boy  "...  "  226 

Mrs.  Weedon  Grossmith u  232 

Fred  Terry  and  Weedon  Grossmith  in  "  The  Little 

Dodge" "  242 

Weedon  Grossmith  as  Jack  Sheppard    ....  "  252 

Wee-Gee  and  Gee-Gee,  1897 "  26° 

Weedon  Grossmith  and  Woodcote  Prince       .      .  "  268 

Weedon  Grossmith  Nursing  "Little  George"  .  "  274 
Weedon  Grossmith  as   the  Hon.  Pitt  Welby   in 

"  The  Duke  of  Killiecrankie  " '•  290 

Weedon  Grossmith  as  Billy  Rotterford  in  "Billy's 

Bargain" "  296 

Poster  for  "  Billy's  Bargain  "  designed  by  Weedon 

Grossmith "  298 

A  Five  Minutes'  Sketch  of  Weedon  Grossmith  by 

Caruso "  324 

No.  1  Bedford  Square "  350 

Part  of  the  Hall  at  No.  1  Bedford  Square  ...  "  352 


FROM  STUDIO  TO  STAGE 


CHAPTER   I 
School  Days 

I  AM  only  aware  of  two  good  reasons  why  I 
should  write  these  pages.  The  first  and  fore- 
most that  they  may  be  the  means  of  putting 
a  little  money  into  my  deposit  account  and 
helping  to  keep  it  there  if  possible.  And  the  second 
to  try  and  amuse  and,  I  hope,  interest  a  fairly 
large  public. 

The  fact  that  I  was  born  was  not  in  itself 
humorous.  I  'm  sure  it  did  n't  amuse  my  parents, 
who  were  not  too  prosperous,  and  already  owned 
two  luxuries  in  the  shape  of  a  boy  and  a  girl.  I 
believe  this  great  event  in  English  history  occurred 
in  Southampton  Row,  two  or  three  doors  from 
Russell  Square,  but  there  is  no  tablet  on  any  of  the 
houses  to  proclaim  the  fact.  The  County  Council 
is  so  careless  in  these  matters ! 

I  am  the  youngest  son  of  the  late  George 
Grossmith,  the  lecturer  and  journalist,  who  had  a 
great  reputation  throughout  the  United  Kingdom 
in  the  sixties  and  seventies,  and  though  probably 
I  may  be  prejudiced  in  his  favour,  he  was  the  finest 
lecturer  I  ever  heard,  with  a  powerful  delivery 
and  a  voice  as  clear  as  a  bell.    Standing  at  a  table, 

i 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

he  could  keep  an  audience  thoroughly  entertained 
for  a  couple  of  hours  without  any  music  or  costume 
to  assist  him,  and  he  never  used  notes.  But  to  revert 
to  Bloomsbury.  It  was  in  a  large  and  lofty  old  room 
in  Southampton  Row  that  I  showed  my  first  inclina- 
tion to  paint  at  the  early  age  of  two  or  three  years. 
My  father  took  in  the  Times  newspaper,  I  believe 
he  paid  three  halfpence  a  day  for  the  loan  of  it  from 
about  eight  till  eleven  A.  M.,  which  was  customary  in 
those  days,  and  when  on  one  occasion  the  newsboy 
called  for  the  paper  it  couldn't  be  found;  they 
hunted  all  over  the  room,  and  at  last  noticing  that, 
for  a  wonder,  I  was  very  quiet,  their  attention  was 
turned  to  me,  to  discover  the  clock  over  the  theatri- 
cal announcements  had  been  painted  red  and  green. 
As  the  newsboy  declined  to  take  it  back  in  that 
condition,  as  it  had  to  be  lent  again  elsewhere, 
my  father  after  much  argument  had  to  buy  the 
paper  at  its  full  price  of  threepence.  As  the 
boy  said,  it  was  now  "  damaged  and  worthless." 
Damaged  and  worthless  indeed!  My  first  painting 
worthless!  Why,  to  the  eager  and  generous  auto- 
graph collectors  such  a  prize  nowadays  would 
probably  fetch  a  considerable  sum,  possibly 
fourpence. 

I  suppose,  like  most  boys,  I  was  gifted  in  the  art 
of  damaging  over  people's  property,  for  I  remem- 
ber a  few  years  after  this  Times  newspaper  episode 
tearing  a  leaf  of  a  valuable  book,  which  was  the 
occasion  of  my  making  my  first  joke.  It  was  in 
Stratton  Street,  Bedford  Square,  opposite  Sass's 
(afterwards  Carey's)  School  of  Art.  The  bust  of 
Minerva  still  remains  over  the  pediment  of  the 

2 


GEORGE   GROSSMITH,    LECTURER.      THE    FATHER   OK    VVKKDON 


SCHOOL   DAYS 

George  II  building.  These  premises  are  now  rented 
by  Messrs.  Isaacs,  dealers  in  antique  furniture. 

Carey's  was  a  very  famous  School  of  Art.  My 
very  dear  old  friend  W.  P.  Frith,  R.  A.,  the  Vic- 
torian painter,  studied  there.  He  informed  me 
recently  at  a  little  bachelor  dinner  I  gave  in  his 
honour  that  he  was  ninety  years  old,  and  had  never 
had  toothache  or  headache  in  his  life.  The  only 
suggestion  of  headache  he  had  ever  experienced  was 
in  1908  after  the  excitement  of  visiting  Buckingham 
Palace  when  his  Majesty  the  King  honoured  him 
with  an  interview  and  conferred  an  order  upon  him. 
But  to  return  to  my  first  burst  of  humour.  It  was 
at  the  age  of  six  or  seven.  I  had  been  gazing  at  the 
pictures  of  a  book  of  travel,  which  I  had  put  aside 
for  something  more  attractive,  but  not  before  I  had 
unfortunately  torn  one  of  the  leaves.  My  father, 
although  an  exceptionally  good-tempered  man,  was 
naturally  annoyed  at  discovering  a  page  torn  in  one 
of  his  favourite  books,  and  regarding  me  with  suspi- 
cion and  a  proper  amount  of  parental  severity,  said, 
11  Who  tore  this  book?  "  I  glanced  at  the  cover  of 
the  book  for  inspiration,  and  my  reply  was  easy. 
"  Father,"  I  said,  "  it  says  on  the  cover  who  did  it. 
Look!    '  Tour  by  a  German  Prince.'  " 

I  was  forgiven.  Like  the  majority  of  human 
beings,  my  father  would  make  more  fuss  over  a 
trifle  than  over  a  serious  event,  and  here  is  an  illus- 
tration. We  had  left  Bloomsbury;  my  father  had 
taken  a  little  house  at  Haverstock  Hill,  Hampstead, 
with  stables  attached.  Nearly  all  houses  in  those 
days  a  few  miles  outside  London,  no  matter  how 
small,  had  stables,  and  those  who  could  afford  it 

3 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

kept  something  in  the  shape  of  a  pony  and  gig  to 
take  them  to  town,  for  the  only  means  of  transit 
to  the  great  City,  other  than  a  private  conveyance, 
was  by  an  omnibus  which  started  every  half-hour 
and  stopped  for  five  minutes  at  intervals  of  seven 
minutes,  when  the  driver  generally  had  a  mug  of  ale 
handed  up  to  him  while  he  chatted  to  a  few  pals. 

The  London  &  North  Western  Railway  was  of 
no  use,  naturally,  from  Hampstead  to  Charing  Cross. 
In  those  days  of  peace  and  quiet  there  were  no 
roaring  and  shrieking  motor  buses  stirring  up  the 
dust,  and  clanging  trams  ruining  every  street  they 
passed  through,  and  as  the  "  cabby  "  always  dis- 
puted the  fare  and  wanted  double,  the  horse  and 
gig  were  very  popular  with  those  who  could  afford 
such  luxuries. 

We  did  not  keep  a  gig,  and  our  coach  house  was 
converted  into  a  very  comfortable  breakfast  room 
looking  on  to  a  long  garden,  and  it  was  in  this  room 
I  conceived  the  brilliant  idea  of  making  gas  from 
turpentine  or  benzolin,  I  forget  which,  and  in 
company  with  my  brother  George,  who  really  ought 
to  have  known  better  (but  apparently  didn't),  I 
boiled  up  about  a  pint  of  this  dangerous  liquid  in 
a  large  workman's  oil  can  that  had  been  left  behind. 
Needless  to  say,  in  making  the  gas,  it  shot  out 
from  the  narrow  neck  of  the  can  with  a  hissing, 
roaring  noise,  and  with  as  much  power  I  should 
think  as  would  propel  an  engine. 

Getting  not  a  little  alarmed,  my  brother  and  I 
thought  it  was  time  to  quit  the  room  and  take  to  the 
garden,  but  not  before  we  had  pulled  the  can  off 
the  fire.  Alas,  the  "  New  Gas  "  ignited.  There 
4 


SCHOOL   DAYS 

was  a  terrific  explosion,  a  huge  flame  shot  across 
the  room,  and  we  were  positively  blown  through 
the  doorway.  Clouds  of  thick  horrible-smelling 
smoke  curled  round  the  plaster  ceiling  which  fell 
in  large  pieces.  Why  the  house  was  n't  burned 
down  I  don't  know. 

My  father,  hearing  the  noise  of  the  explosion, 
arrived  on  the  scene,  speechless.  It  was  too  much 
for  him,  and  when  he  did  recover  his  powers  of 
oratory  he  feebly  said,  "  Blow  your  heads  off  as 
much  as  you  like,  but  don't  blow  up  my  house ! " 
I  fear  my  dear  parents  had  a  great  deal  to  put  up 
with. 

It  was  often  my  habit  in  descending  the  stairs  to 
jump  the  last  six  or  seven,  and  in  doing  so  I  fre- 
quently tore  the  carpets  away  from  the  rods,  and 
my  heels  became  imbedded  in  the  mat  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs.  My  sweet  mother  remonstrated  with 
me  for  damaging  property,  but  my  father  in  his 
quietest  and  most  icy  manner  said,  "  It  does  n't 
matter  to  him,  he  does  n't  have  to  pay  for  it." 

Ah!  How  often  have  I  had  occasion  to  rebuke 
people  in  the  same  way!  All  my  selfishness  and 
thoughtlessness  has  recoiled  on  me  over  and  over 
again.  What  a  difference  it  makes  when  you 
"  don't  have  to  pay"! 

After  I  left  my  first  school,  which  was  kept  by 
three  ladies  named  Hay  (they  were  very  prim,  but 
very  sweet  and  kind)  I  went  for  a  little  while  to  the 
North  London  Collegiate  School  in  Camden  Town. 
I  did  n't  care  for  it  much,  it  was  so  big,  and  the 
commercial  element  predominated.  It  was  more 
suited  to  the  study  of  book-keeping  than  I  had  a 

5 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

mind  for  or  was  interested  in,  for  even  at  this  early 
age  my  parents  had  decided  that  I  was  to  follow 
one  of  the  Arts.  And  the  artistic  instinct  seldom 
blends  with  the  commercial:  perhaps  it's  a  pity 
for  the  artistic  people  that  they  don't.  We  used  to 
go  for  rambles  on  Saturday  afternoons,  and  one 
fine  day  an  incident  occurred  which  made  an  in- 
delible impression  on  my  youthful  mind.  I  had 
arranged  with  a  boy  from  a  school  in  Mornington 
Crescent  to  go  to  Primrose  Hill,  and  when  on  our 
way  there  I  picked  up  sixpence  on  the  pavement, 
our  delight  was  unbounded.  We  were  half  an  hour 
discussing  what  we  should  do  with  it,  how  it  was 
to  be  spent.  At  last,  as  I  had  discovered  the  six- 
pence, I  felt  it  was  for  me  to  decide,  and  I  elected 
to  buy  a  whole  "  round  "  of  French  Almond  Rock. 
I  had  often  purchased  a  pennyworth,  chipped  off 
with  a  pair  of  large  pincers,  but  it  was  never  enough. 
I  felt  one  could  n't  ever  eat  enough  of  this  lovely 
stuff.  We  marched  into  the  nearest  sweetstuff  shop, 
and  I  bought  the  whole  round  for  sixpence.  I  gave 
my  friend  half  —  or  nearly  half  —  and  we  started 
on  it  slowly. 

We  went  over  Primrose  Hill  and  round  the  side, 
where  there  was  a  pond,  and  bushes  and  fields,  now 
all  built  over.  I  suddenly  felt  curious  pains  that 
compelled  me  to  sit  down  for  awhile.  The  pains 
increased.  The  bitter  almonds  (and  there  were 
many)  in  the  French  Rock  were  doing  their  work; 
my  friend  commenced  to  cry,  he  too  was  suffering, 
but  I  could  n't  be  bothered  with  him.  My  thoughts 
were  entirely  concentrated  on  myself.  I  rolled  on 
the  grass  in  agony,  I  drew  my  knees  up  to  my  chin, 
6 


SCHOOL   DAYS 

and  shot  them  out  again,  and  pressing  my  hands 
against  my  lower  chest,  I  cried  hard.  I  heard  my 
friend  groaning  behind  a  bush.  He  too  was  in 
dreadful  agony,  but  I  could  n't  think  of  him.  At 
last  I  decided  that  the  best  thing  to  do  was  to  get 
home  as  quickly  as  I  could.  So  I  ran  home,  crying 
all  the  way,  and  confessed  all  to  my  dear  mother, 
and  with  her  kind  attention  was  soon  well  again, 
but  I  was  off  French  Almond  Rock  for  ever.  As 
for  the  other  boy,  I  never  saw  him  again;  perhaps 
he  died  behind  the  bushes.  It  was  before  my  days 
for  reading  newspapers,  so  it  was  quite  natural  that 
I  should  have  never  heard  of  the  inquest.  If  he  is 
alive  perhaps  he  will  write  to  me.  I  should  be 
glad  to  know  that  he  is  still  with  us. 

On  one  of  these  Saturday  walks  I  went  to  the 
Welsh  Harp  at  Hendon,  in  company  with  a  friend 
named  Sidney  Boulton  and  another  school-fellow, 
although  I  had  had  strict  orders  from  home  not  to 
go  anywhere  "  where  there  were  ponds." 

I  walked  to  the  end  of  a  long  floating  raft,  which 
was  so  slippery  that  I  toppled  over  into  the  water 
and  was  nearly  drowned.  I  had  had  a  few  swimming 
lessons,  or  should  not  have  been  here  now.  I  fell 
into  twenty  feet  of  water.  I  did  n't  know  where  I 
was,  it  seemed  hours  going  down,  then  suddenly  I 
popped  up  again  and  saw  water  all  round  me.  I 
struck  out  at  once,  but  towards  the  middle  of  the  lake 
my  friends  were  lying  flat  on  the  raft  calling  out, 
"  Turn  round,  you  fool,  turn  round ! "  and  though 
I  had  never  learnt  to  turn  round  in  the  swimming 
bath,  I  turned  round  then,  and  with  my  clothes  and 
thick  boots  on,  but  was  just  giving  way,  when  they 

7 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

caught  hold  of  the  tips  of  my  fingers  and  pulled  me 
up.  I  need  hardly  say  I  was  much  obliged  to  them, 
and  they  have  often  reminded  me  since  that  they 
saved  my  life;  so  they  did,  but  if  it  had  n't  been  for 
them  I  should  never  have  fallen  in  the  water,  for 
they  took  me  to  the  Welsh  Harp. 

Soon  after  this  event  I  went  for  a  time  to  a  small 
private  school  at  Hampstead,  where  there  were 
only  about  half  a  dozen  pupils.  I  was  not  very 
happy  there.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  jealousy 
and  a  good  deal  of  favouritism,  and  a  good  many 
rows  in  consequence,  and  one  of  these  little  argu- 
ments was  between  a  boy  named  Store  and  myself, 
and  we  at  last  decided  to  settle  matters  in  a  quiet 
field  near  by,  in  the  old-fashioned  method.  A  ring 
was  made,  and  I  stood  up  for  a  good  twenty  minutes 
and  succeeded  in  knocking  my  opponent  out.  We 
shook  hands  and  made  it  up.  I  was  congratulated 
by  the  head  boy  of  the  school,  a  chap  named 
Bartlett,  a  big,  fat,  red-faced,  good-looking  fellow 
with  reddish  hair.  He  always  patronised  me  in 
the  following  manner:  "Very  good,  little  man," 
"  Very  good  for  you."  He  then  took  off  my  cap 
and  threw  it  up  a  tree,  and  ordered  me  to  climb  up 
after  it.  He  was  rather  too  fond  of  this  tyrannical 
attitude  towards  me.  If  I  met  him  in  the  streets 
he  would  say,  "  Let  me  look  at  your  books,"  snatch- 
ing them  from  me;  at  the  same  time  he  would  throw 
them  in  the  road  and  request  me  to  pick  them  up. 
I  had  to  obey,  I  could  n't  "  take  him  on  "  as  I  did 
Store,  so  had  to  submit  to  these  humiliations. 

One  day  my  friend  Store  said  to  me,  "  Why  do 
you  allow  Bartlett  to  bully  you?" 
8 


SCHOOL   DAYS 
I    replied,    "  I    can't   help    it,    he 's    twice   my 


size." 


"  I  would  help  it,"  said  Store;  "  he  never  bullies 
me,  does  he?  " 

"  Now  you  mention  it,"  I  said,  "  I  have  never 
observed  that  he  bullies  you." 

"  Because  he  knows  better,"  said  Store;  "  he  used 
to,  but  I  soon  stopped  that.  I  gave  him  a  bit  to  go 
on  with." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  —  " 

"  Gave  him  a  jolly  good  hiding,"  said  Store, 
"  including  the  undercut  and  the  tap  in  the  waist. 
He  ran  away,  he  's  the  biggest  coward  living,  and 
he  cried  like  a  kid.  I  smacked  his  face  once  more 
for  luck  and  made  him  apologise.  I  then  took  off 
his  cap,  ruffled  his  hair  over  his  face,  threw  his 
books  in  the  mud,  and  told  him  he  could  go  home 
and  tell  his  Ma!  and  at  the  time  I  felt  rather  sorry 
for  him,  but  he  never  bullied  me  again." 

I  was  simply  amazed!  I  said  I  would  never 
have  believed  it.  What  an  ass  I've  been  all  this 
time!  "  If  you,  Store,  can  beat  Bartlett,  what  could 
I  do,  eh?    For  I  can  lick  you  hollow." 

"  That 's  true  enough,"  said  Store.  "  So  next  time 
he  takes  off  your  cap  and  throws  it  in  the  road 
smack  his  face,  smack  it  hard,  and  he  '11  run  away 
and  cry  like  a  baby." 

I  thanked  Store  and  stood  him  a  cheesecake  at 
the  nearest  Tuck  Shop.  I  went  home  feeling  that 
a  great  weight  was  lifted  off  my  shoulders,  and 
longing  for  an  opportunity  of  getting  even  with 
Mr.  Bartlett.  Putting  a  pillow  in  an  armchair,  I 
had  an  imaginary  practice  with  Bartlett.     How 

9 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

I  longed  to  scrape  up  a  quarrel  with  him,  but,  it 
being  Saturday,  I  had  to  wait  till  Monday  for  my 
day  of  triumph. 

At  length  an  opportunity  came.  After  school  was 
over  I  walked  home  alone,  hanging  about  in  the 
hope  of  meeting  Bartlett;  presently  I  heard  the 
familiar  voice  calling  out  in  his  usual  patronising 
manner,  "  Hi,  little  man,  don't  you  hear  the  King 
calling  you?  Then  why  don't  you  stop  and  obey 
his  Majesty?  " 

I  said,  "  Excuse  me,  I  want  to  get  home  —  your 
Majesty! " 

"  Really,"  he  replied,  "  then  I  fear  you  must  wait 
my  Royal  pleasure."  He  took  off  my  cap  and 
threw  it  in  the  road. 

I  picked  it  up,  and  with  great  determination 
said,  "  Don't  you  do  that  again,  if  you  please,  I 
don't  like  it." 

"Really,  and  why  not,  little  man?"  said  Bart- 
lett. 

"  Because  I  don't  like  it." 

"  Then  you  will  have  to  lump  it,"  said  Bartlett. 
He  was  just  going  to  snatch  my  cap  again,  when  I, 
what  is  commonly  called,  "  landed  him  one  on  the 
jaw."  Oh,  what  a  smack  it  was  I  I  then  stood  on 
my  guard.  Never  have  I  seen  the  expression  of 
surprise  so  vividly  depicted  on  anyone's  face  before 
or  since.  For  a  second  or  two  Bartlett  seemed 
bewildered,  but  only  for  a  second  or  two.  Was  he 
going  to  run  away  or  cry  like  a  baby,  or  was  he 
going  to  call  a  policeman?  Neither,  as  I  very  soon 
realised. 

He  made  a  wild  rush  for  me;  in  a  second  I  was 
10 


SCHOOL   DAYS 

on  the  ground.  I  rose,  and  he  ran  after  me;  I  was 
down  again,  rolling  in  the  mud,  and  taking  up  some 
of  it  in  my  mouth.  One  or  two  more  solid  punches, 
then  he  let  me  go.  I  was  more  surprised  than  he 
was,  and  much  more  hurt.  I  ran  as  hard  as  I  could 
home.  I  do  him  the  justice  to  say  he  called  out 
to  me,  "  Little  man,  I  hope  I  did  n't  hurt  you  much, 
I  did  n't  mean  to,  anyway;  you  rather  annoyed  me, 
you  know." 

"  That 's  all  right,"  I  replied,  and  bolted  like  a 
hare. 

Store  called  that  evening,  and  I  related  what 
happened.  I  never  heard  anyone  laugh  as  much 
as  Store  did.  He  threw  himself  on  a  couch  and 
kicked  his  legs  in  the  air.  When  he  had  recovered 
himself  he  said,  "  Bartlett!  you  never  tackled 
Bartlett,  really?  " 

"  Of  course  I  did,"  I  replied.  "  You  suggested 
it." 

"  My  goodness,"  said  Store,  going  into  another 
fit  of  laughter,  "  I  was  only  joking.  You  tackled 
Bartlett,  oh,  oh!" 

I  realised  I  had  been  done,  made  a  fool  of,  so 
I  gave  Store  another  dressing. 

About  ten  years  ago  I  was  lunching  at  some  old 
City  restaurant  with  my  friend  Harry  Birks,  the 
stockbroker,  when  a  big,  jovial,  jolly-looking  man 
shook  hands  with  -Birks,  and  introduced  himself 
to  me.  "  What!  "  I  exclaimed,  "  Bartlett,"  and  we 
were  delighted  to  renew  our  old  acquaintance.  I 
reminded  him  of  this  story;  he  said  he  had  forgotten 
it,  I  said  I  never  should. 

"  Well,"  he  replied,  "  have  a  go  at  me  now,  then 

ii 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

we  're  quits,"  and  he  ordered  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne. 

I  said,  "  Thank  you,  Bartlett,  I  have  n't  any  better 
chance  now  than  I  had  then,  not  so  good  a  one. 
I  '11  take  on  the  wine,  but  not  you.11  Bartlett  is  now 
a  highly  successful  man  —  "  on  Change." 


12 


CHAPTER   II 

Simpson's  School  in  England's  Lane, 
Hampstead 

WHEN  I  left  this  private  class  I  went  to 
a  most  delightful  school,  also  at  Hamp- 
stead, in  a  fine  old  house  standing  in 
its  own  grounds  in  England's  Lane. 
The  school  belonged  to  Mr.  John  Simpson,  and  a 
better  master  one  could  never  wish  for.  Of  course 
we  spoke  of  him  as  "  Simpson  "  behind  his  back, 
but  we  all  had  a  great  respect  and  affection  for 
him.  I  saw  him  recently,  and  but  for  his  beard 
being  grey,  he  is  as  young  to-day  as  ever,  bless 
him! 

He  was  a  firm  believer  in  corporal  punishment, 
and  so  am  I.  Nowadays,  if  a  street  urchin  to  whose 
education  we  rate-payers  have  contributed  at  the 
L.  C.  C.  Schools  throws  a  stone  through  our  win- 
dow, and  we  box  his  ears,  his  father  will  take  out 
a  summons  against  us  for  assault,  and,  what  is  more, 
we  shall  be  fined.  This  is  all  wrong.  If  a  boy 
climbs  over  your  garden  wall  and  steals  some  apples, 
you  don't  want  to  give  him  in  charge  so  that  he  will 
have  the  taint  of  prison  on  him  for  the  remainder 
of  his  life.  No,  it 's  much  better  for  him,  and  for 
you,  to  box  his  ears  or  give  him  a  swish  with  a 
cane,  and  it  does  him  far  more  good. 

13 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

My  master,  Mr.  Simpson,  thought  so  too,  and 
personally  I  always  preferred  to  take  half  a  dozen 
on  each  hand  and  get  it  over  than  have  to  "  remain 
in  "  and  write  out  a  hundred  lines.  I  found  a  little 
lemon  squeezed  on  the  palm  of  the  hand  toughened 
the  skin  a  bit,  but  as  the  order  for  the  "  swish  "  came 
unexpectedly,  I  was  generally  lemonless,  and,  after 
all,  the  worst  part  is  the  anticipation.  The  best 
plan  was  to  put  your  hand  out  boldly  and  think  of 
something  else,  think  of  something  pleasant  and 
pretty — Mrs.  Simpson  for  choice,  for  she  was 
beautiful  —  and  it  was  soon  over,  and  in  the  cold 
weather  your  hands  were  nice  and  warm  after  your 
punishment  instead  of  being  half  frozen  if  you  were 
good,  for  at  Simpson's  they  were  n't  great  at  fires. 
There  was  one  fire  at  the  end  of  a  very  large  room, 
with  the  Latin  Master  in  front  of  it.  How  we 
used  to  long  for  the  bell  to  ring,  and  when  it  did 
how  we  used  to  rush  out,  no  matter  what  kind  of 
weather  it  was,  and  make  for  the  Giant's  Stride  or 
the  "  stirrups."    We  soon  got  warm. 

I  don't  believe  in  bringing  boys  up  on  steam  heat 
and  mufflers;  if  you  are  wrapped  up  as  a  youngster 
you  will  have  to  continue  wrapping  up  all  your  life, 
and  the  more  you  put  on  in  the  way  of  clothes  the 
more  you  will  have  to.  We  seldom  wore  overcoats 
in  the  winter,  I  think  we  regarded  it  as  "  bad  form  " 
to  do  so.  As  for  gloves,  well,  I  've  never  worn  them 
at  any  time  of  my  life  except  for  a  dance;  in  fact, 
I  have  n't  got  any,  or  have  n't  had  any  for  years, 
no  matter  how  much  the  temperature  is  below  freez- 
ing point.  As  for  a  fire  in  one's  bedroom  it  was 
unheard  of  in  my  young  days. 
14 


SIMPSON'S    SCHOOL 

Windows  were  open  all  the  time. 

Being  rather  flush  of  pocket  money  for  one  week 
only  —  fourpence  a  week  was  my  pay  —  I  made 
a  kind  of  corner  in  glass  marbles.  They  were  very 
pretty  with  coloured  twists  down  the  middle,  like 
some  of  the  old  wineglasses,  of  which,  by  the  way, 
I  am  happy  to  say  I  have  collected  a  fair  number. 

I  had  quite  two  dozen  of  these  marbles,  and  a 
dozen  in  each  trouser  pocket  weighs  a  bit  heavy, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  rattling  noise  they  made  when 
one  moved. 

A  new  boy  arrived  at  the  school  one  morning, 
looking  a  bit  more  stupid  than  the  majority  of  new 
boys,  so  I  challenged  him  to  a  game  of  marbles. 
In  a  very  polite  and  mild  voice  he  said  he  would 
be  delighted  "  if  I  would  lend*  him  one  to  play 
with."  I  concluded  he  had  n't  his  handy,  so  I  com- 
plied with  his  request  and  lent  him  one  of  my 
marbles  and  we  played,  and  in  less  than  half  an 
hour  he  had  won  my  entire  stock  and  my  pockets 
were  empty.  He  thanked  me  for  the  pleasant  game 
I  had  afforded  him,  and  also  for  the  loan  of  a 
marble,  which  he  handed  me  back  and  walked  off 
rattling  my  "  corner "  in  marbles  in  his  pockets. 
I  heard  afterwards  that  he  had  no  marbles  of  his 
own,  so  that  I  had  practically  advanced  him  the 
capital  at  no  interest,  which  enabled  him  to  bring 
about  my  ruin. 

There  flourished  in  England's  Lane  a  delightful 
"  Tuck  Shop  "  famous  for  cheesecakes  and  three- 
cornered  jam  puffs.  As  I  write  this,  I  shudder  at 
the  mere  thought  of  such  horrors,  such  are  the 
changes  wrought  by  time;  in  those  days  I  was  a 

i5 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

regular  customer  at  the  shop,  and  so  was  a  school- 
fellow named  Rutter.  One  day,  as  I  handed  over 
my  modest  twopence,  when  about  to  leave  the  shop, 
I  noticed  Rutter,  who  had  also  eaten  TWO  penny 
tarts,  give  one  penny  only  to  the  proprietor.  Out- 
side the  shop  I  asked  him  why,  thinking  it  must 
have  been  an  oversight  on  his  part.  "  Oh ! "  said 
Rutter,  "  I  always  eat  the  damaged  tarts,  they  taste 
just  as  good,  and  it 's  only  that  the  crust  is  a  bit  flat- 
tened down,  that 's  nothing." 

But  said  I,  "  There  never  are  any  damaged  tarts 
when  I  get  there;  the  boys  who  get  there  first  eat 
them  all"  (the  "damaged"  pastry  was  set  aside 
on  a  special  dish  labelled  "Damaged  Tarts,  half 
price"). 

Rutter  said,  "  Oh !  I  can  always  find  some  — 
watch  me  to-morrow." 

The  next  day  I  went  with  him  to  the  shop,  and 
while  looking  about  to  see  what  he  would  have,  I 
noticed  that  he  deliberately  but  rapidly  gave  the  top 
of  a  three-cornered  puff  a  sharp  tap  with  his  knuckles 
which  flattened  down  the  light  and  airy  struc- 
ture, then  saying  very  modestly,  c?  he  pointed  to  it, 
"  May  I  have  this  for  a  halfpenny?  "  The  confec- 
tioner looked  at  it  and  said,  "  I  did  n't  see  that,  I 
thought  I  had  put  all  the  broken  ones  together  — 
over  there,"  indicating  the  plate  set  aside,  but  he 
added,  u  You  can  have  it  for  a  halfpenny." 

I  saw  the  game,  and  during  this  conversation  had 
managed  to  knock  the  top  off  a  fine-looking  cheese- 
cake and  had  pushed  the  half  under  something  else. 
I  came  up  to  where  the  proprietor  was  and  said, 
pointing  to  what  I  wanted,  "  There  's  a  broken 
16 


SIMPSON'S    SCHOOL 

cheesecake  on  that  plate,  is  it  half  price?  "  It  was, 
so  I  ate  it  as  rapidly  as  possible  and  pushed  my 
halfpenny  across  the  counter.  As  we  left  the  shop 
I  gratefully  thanked  Rutter  for  this  valuable  tip, 
and  promised  him  that  I  would  not  tell  any  of  the 
other  boys,  as  "  it  would  spoil  the  market."  I 
wonder  whether  any  of  Rutter's  relatives  were 
Stockbrokers. 

After  this  I  frequently,  in  company  with  Rutter, 
visited  the  Tuck  Shop  and  partook  of  "  damaged 
tarts "  at  half  price,  but  never  attained  his  facility. 
It  was  wonderful.  I  have  seen  him  tapping  a 
cheesecake  with  a  bland  smile  on  his  face  while  he 
talked  "  Cricket "  to  the  owner  of  the  shop. 

For  some  time  these  nefarious  practices  were 
carried  on  triumphantly,  but,  alas,  becoming  over- 
bold, /  killed  the  goose  with  the  golden  eggs.  One 
evening  Rutter  and  I  went  with  our  usual  demand, 
but  there  was  "  no  damaged  pastry  at  all,  all  sold" 
"  Oh  dear,"  said  Rutter,  "  just  have  a  good  look 
round !  "  At  that  moment  I  pressed  down  with  both 
hands  a  heaped-up  dish  of  lovely  new  jam  tarts, 
just  fresh  from  the  oven.  I  overdid  it!  and  unfor- 
tunately my  curious  action  was  observed  by  the 
long-suffering  baker.  A  look  of  intelligence,  which 
was  as  new  as  the  pastry  I  had  smashed,  overspread 
his  countenance.  "  Get  out  of  my  shop ! "  he  said 
rudely.  I  offered  to  pay  full  price  for  all  I  had 
"  spoilt,"  but  my  offer  was  refused,  and  to  our 
consternation  he  insisted  on  going  back  to  the  school 
with  us,  seeing  Mr.  Kinglet,  one  of  the  masters 
(Mr.  Simpson  the  "Head"  was  out),  and  giving 
him  a  detailed  account  of  our  little  escapade. 

i7 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

When  the  baker  left,  I  had  "  half  a  dozen  "  on 
each  hand.  Next  day,  at  Rutter's  suggestion,  we 
again  went  to  the  Tuck  Shop  and  harrowed  the 
owner's  feelings  by  telling  him  of  the  "  awful 
thrashing "  I  had  undergone,  and  describing  in 
detail  "  the  weals  all  over  my  body,"  and  I  must  have 
been  a  bit  of  an  actor  even  then,  for  I  so  wrought 
on  the  better  feelings  of  the  poor  man  by  my  assump- 
tion of  weakness  and  pain,  that  he  positively  forced 
on  us  all  the  nice  new  undamaged  tarts  we  could 
eat,  and  seemed  quite  upset  and  ashamed  of  his  part 
in  the  affair.  Rutter  ought  also  to  have  gone  on  the 
stage. 

Some  boy  in  the  school,  and  I  think  it  was 
Lawford,  who  was  a  great  pal  of  mine  (he  now  owns 
a  huge  Tile  Wharf  on  the  Regent's  Park  Canal, 
Camden  Town),  introduced  smoking  in  the  school. 
There  were  a  couple  of  old  barns  where  we  could 
hide  and  light  up.  The  fascination  grew,  and  we 
all  smoked.  I  used  to  buy  a  cigarette  with  a  bit  of 
tobacco  leaf  wrapped  round  it  and  a  glass  mouth- 
piece attached  for  a  halfpenny,  also  a  few  pepper- 
mint drops  to  eat  afterwards  to  take  off  the  smell 
of  the  tobacco.  We  all  got  the  fever  pretty  badly 
and  became  ardent  smokers. 

And  when  on  Saturday  afternoons  we  used  to  take 
our  walk  to  Finchley  with  one  of  the  Junior  Mas- 
ters—  a  good-natured  fellow  —  we  so  imposed  on 
his  amiability  that  he  allowed  us  to  light  up  when 
we  got  into  the  fields,  and  so  things  went  on  very 
merrily,  till  one  unfortunate  day  when  Mr.  Simp- 
son called  on  some  new  residents  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  suggested  that  their  son  should  come  to 
18 


SIMPSON'S    SCHOOL 

his  school.  The  lady  of  the  house  said  she  was 
sure  that  everything  Mr.  Simpson  had  said  in  favour 
of  the  school  was  true  and  she  should  like  nothing 
better  than  that  her  son  should  become  a  pupil  of 
a  gentleman  who  was  as  clever  as  he  was  popular, 
but  there  was  one  drawback,  and  to  her  a  very  great 
drawback.  Mr.  Simpson  was  most  anxious  to  learn 
what  this  could  be.  Was  it  that  she  favoured 
a  commercial  education  in  preference  to  a 
classical  one?  He  admitted  that  perhaps  a  little 
too  much  time  was  given  to  the  study  of  the  dead 
languages. 

"  Oh  dear,  no,"  the  lady  replied,  "  but  my  hus- 
band and  I  have  a  detestation  of  boys  smoking." 

"  Smoking!  "  gasped  Mr.  Simpson,  "  smoking!  " 
My  boys  smoking?    Where,  madam,  where?  " 

The  cat  was  out  of  the  bag,  and  she  told  him 
where  we  could  be  seen  on  Saturday  afternoons,  so 
that  he  could  satisfy  himself. 

It  was  a  fine  summer  afternoon,  when  we  all 
made  a  halt  for  a  minute  in  a  little  lane  near  the 
"Bull  and  Bush"  at  Hampstead,  out  came  our  pipes, 
cigarettes,  and  on  this  occasion  I  had  started  a 
three-halfpenny  cigar  called  a  "  Vevvy  Fin,"  and 
being  all  well  lighted  up,  we  proceeded  two  and 
two  on  the  march. 

Presently  a  muffled  up  stranger  crossed  the  fields, 
and  as  he  passed  close  to  me  I  puffed  a  good  cloud 
in  his  face  for  coming  so  near  to  us.  He  turned 
down  his  collar  and  revealed  "  Simpson."  Like 
lightning,  pipes,  cigarettes,  and  cigars  disappeared. 
And  no  shag  smoked  out  of  a  new  clay  pipe  could 
haye  blanched  our  cheeks  as  the  vision  of  Mr. 

19 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

Simpson  did.  His  right  hand  clutched  an  imag- 
inary cane.  Thank  goodness,  he  had  left  that 
behind  at  homel  He  only  spoke  one  word  that  I 
remember.  He  took  his  place  at  the  head  of  us  and 
said"  Home!" 

I  did  n't  sleep  that  night;  next  morning  there  was 
a  notice  up  in  the  Hall  that  everyone  was  to  attend 
in  No.  i  room  at  twelve  o'clock. 

We  all  filed  in  at  twelve  o'clock,  and  you  could 
have  heard  a  pin  drop.  There  was  a  pause  for 
about  ten  minutes,  then  Mr.  Simpson  made  a  very 
fine  entrance  and  took  his  seat  at  his  desk.  From 
what  I  know  now  from  my  theatrical  experience, 
all  this  was  carefully  rehearsed  beforehand  by  Mr. 
Simpson  and  his  wife.  I  have  heard  many  famous 
speakers  in  my  time,  but  never  have  I  heard  an 
oration  to  equal  for  point,  fire,  and  impressiveness 
the  one  which  Mr.  Simpson  delivered  that  morning. 
Although  it  was  many  years  ago,  I  can  remem- 
ber most  of  it.  Smoking,  he  said,  "  was  caddish, 
demoralising,  and  at  all  times  a  disgusting 
habit  for  a  boy,  or  indeed  anyone,  to  indulge  in. 
He  had  fondly  but  foolishly  imagined  his  pupils 
were  gentlemen;  most  assuredly  he  had  been  de- 
ceived." 

u  No,  sir,"  from  one  boy.  "  Give  us  a  chance, 
sir,"  from  another. 

"Silence!"  roared  Mr.  Simpson  in  his  best 
Thespian  style.  Enter  Mrs.  Simpson  (this,  I 
expect,  was  her  cue  as  arranged). 

"Mrs.  Simpson!!!"  the  boys  shouted,  "Mrs. 
Simpson!  !  !"  and  cheered  lustily. 

"  Silence!  "  roared  the  Principal.  Mrs.  Simpson 
20 


SIMPSON'S    SCHOOL 

assumed  grief  and  took  out  her  handkerchief  and 
sniffed  loudly. 

"  Not  only  had  we  dishonoured  ourselves,"  he 
continued,  "  but  we  had  dishonoured  him  and  the 
school.  Our  atrocious  conduct  must  surely  be  the 
talk  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  to  those  within  these 
dear  old  walls,  a  shame  and  disgrace."  Long 
pause  (evidently  rehearsed,  with  sniffs  from  Mrs. 
Simpson). 

"  First  of  all,"  he  continued,  "  he  would  ask  those 
boys  who  had  never  smoked  in  or  out  of  the  school 
to  hold  up  their  hands." 

Two  or  three  very  small  boys  were  about  to  do 
so,  but  scowls  and  surreptitious  kicks  from  the 
elder  boys  frightened  them,  so  they  kept  their  hands 
down. 

"  Now,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  there  is  only  one  punishment  which 
will  meet  the  offence."  I  commenced  to  smile  again 
and  took  a  piece  of  lemon  from  my  pocket,  antici- 
pating the  "  usual." 

"  Every  boy  who  has  smoked,"  continued  Mr. 
Simpson,"  will  be  expelled  from  the  school."  This 
was  said  with  deep  emotion.  It  did  n't  occur  to  any 
of  us  at  the  time  that  such  drastic  measures  on  the 
part  of  the  Principal  would  deprive  him  of  his  own 
means  of  livelihood.  We  must  have  thought  he 
was  running  the  school  for  fun,  so  we  groaned, 
"  No,  sir,  give  us  another  chance." 

"  Silence!  "  from  Mr.  Simpson.  "  This  afternoon 
I  will  write  to  your  parents  telling  them  why  I  am 
thus  compelled  to  send  you  away  with  an  indelible 
stain   upon  your   characters."     Then,   with   great 

21 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

dignity,  he  rose  from  his  seat  and  said,  "  Gentlemen, 
you  are  expelled! " 

Expelled,  and  my  father  loathed  tobacco!  I  must 
drown  myself  first.  Then  beautiful  Mrs.  Simpson 
approached  her  husband,  with  tears  and  a  handker- 
chief (all  rehearsed),  and  pleaded  for  us,  but  Mr. 
Simpson  sternly  waved  her  away.  "  Please,  please," 
she  said,  "  give  the  boys  ONE  more  chance."  Cheers 
from  the  boys.  Again  affected  sternness  on  the  part 
of  the  Principal.  More  pleadings;  then  Mr. 
Simpson  said : 

"  Very  well,  boys,  Mrs.  Simpson  has  pleaded 
hard  for  you,  and  for  her  sake  as  well  as  your  own 
I  am  inclined  to  soften  my  heart"  (Great  cheers), 
"  and  I  will  forgive  you,  but  only  on  one  condition, 
that  you  all  give  me  your  word  of  honour,  as  gentle- 
men, never  to  smoke  again  until  you  have  arrived 
at  the  age  of  twenty."  We  all  promised,  and  Mr. 
Simpson  said,  "  Boys,  I  forgive  you,"  and  one  of 
the  big  boys  stood  on  a  form  and  shouted  three 
cheers  for  Mrs.  Simpson.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
excitement,  and  as  she  passed  us,  several  boys, 
including  myself,  kissed  her  hands,  and  had  I  been 
tall  enough  I  had  the  inclination  to  kiss  her  on  the 
cheeks,  and  chance  a  box  on  the  ears,  and  so  it  all 
ended  happily,  and  I  can  truthfully  say  I  never 
smoked  again  until  I  was  twenty.  I  kept  my  word, 
but  I  don't  think  Lawford  did,  I  must  ask  him. 

A  few  years  after  this  I  left  Simpson's  and  was 
studying  Art  at  a  branch  of  the  South  Kensington 
Art  Schools  in  Bolsover  Street,  Portland  Place.  I 
received  an  invitation  to  a  Christmas  Dance  at  Mrs. 
Simpson's  before  the  holidays.  I  was  asked  as  a 
22 


SIMPSON'S    SCHOOL 

guest  and  not  as  a  boy;  I  accepted  and  went.  I 
did  n't  seem  to  know  anybody  and  no  one  knew 
me.  I  wandered  about  looking  for  my  host  and 
hostess,  then  had  a  few  glasses  of  lemonade  and 
leaned  against  the  wall,  feeling  "  thoroughly  out 
of  it."  I  was  a  kind  of  betwixt  and  between  and 
felt  hurt  and  lonely  when  a  parent  of  one  of  the 
boys  remarked  to  me  he  supposed  I  was  glad  that 
the  school  had  broken  up  and  that  I  must  be  looking 
forward  to  my  holidays!  I  satirically  replied  that 
the  Kensington  Schools  of  Art  had  no  vacation  at 
Christmas  and  left  him,  and  encountered  my  dear 
hostess,  Mrs.  Simpson,  who  said,  "  So  glad  you 
could  come.  Awfully  nice  of  you."  She  turned 
to  shake  hands  with  somebody  else,  and  then  came 
back  to  me  and  said,  "Oh,  by  the  way,  Master  — 
er,  Mister  Walter  "  (my  first  name),  "  don't  drink 
the  lemonade." 

"  Why  not?  "  I  said.  I  had  already  had  three 
glasses. 

14  Because,"  she  replied,  "  we  had  to  make  twenty 
gallons,  and  having  nothing  else  large  enough  to 
hold  it,  we  were  obliged  to  make  it  in  the  boy's 
bath!" 

Just  about  this  time  my  brother  George  was  a 
reporter  on  the  Times  newspaper,  and  doing  very 
well,  but  he  had  great  difficulty  in  saving  money, 
which  is  always  a  very  uninteresting  proceeding. 
I  suggested  that  he  should  start  a  money-box. 

11  What 's  the  good  of  that?  "  he  said.  "  I  should 
always  be  taking  out  the  money  when  I  wanted  it." 
"  No,  you  would  n't,"  I  replied,  "  for  J  would  keep 
the  key,  and  then  you  could  n't  take  any  out."    He 

23 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

regarded  this  suggestion  as  a  stroke  of  genius  on  my 
part,  and  bought  a  money-box,  and  handed  it  over 
to  me  with  the  key.  He  started  the  bank  with  a 
capital  of  ten  shillings.    He  went  on  saving. 

One  day  he  said  to  me,  "  This  is  a  great  idea  of 
yours,  Weedon,  and  you  ought  to  receive  some 
benefit  from  it." 

"  That 's  all  right,"  I  said,  "  I  'm  not  the  only 
bank  clerk  who  is  underpaid." 

"  Quite  so,"  replied  Gee-Gee,  "  only  you  're  not 
underpaid  at  all.  But  I  tell  you  what,  Weedon, 
if  at  any  time  you  want  a  trifle  there  is  no  harm  in 
your  borrowing  as  if  it  were  from  the  bank,  so 
long  as  you  refund  the  money." 

This  struck  me  as  a  most  excellent  idea,  and  I 
readily  agreed.  I  said,  "  Of  course  it  makes  it  more 
like  a  real  bank,  because  all  banks  lend  money, 
don't  they?  " 

"  Certainly  they  do,"  he  said,  "  so  don't  forget, 
if  ever  you  want  twopence  or  even  sixpence,  you 
know  where  to  get  it." 

"  I  do,"  I  replied.  "  Not  that  I  shall  want  to  avail 
myself  of  your  kindness,"  but  I  hinted  that  if  the 
tide  of  ill-luck  should  ever  flow  towards  me  I  MIGHT 
borrow  from  the  bank,  at  the  same  time  placing 
an  I.O.U.  in  it  for  the  amount  borrowed  from  the 
box  to  remind  me  and  protect  him. 

George  thought  this  an  excellent  business  arrange- 
ment and  so  did  I. 

Well,  it  was  n't  many  days  before  that  tide  did 
flow  my  way,  and  threepence  came  out  of  the  box, 
but  an  I.O.U.  went  in  for  the  amount.  Later  on 
another  and  another.  Where  it  was  first  I.O.U. 
24 


SIMPSON'S    SCHOOL 

threepence,  I.O.U.  sixpence,  it  was  now  more  often 
I.O.U.  a  shilling,  and  later  I.O.U.  half-a-crown. 
The  box  got  lighter  and  lighter.  The  money  was 
there  all  the  same,  but  on  paper. 

My  brother  had  been  staying  out  rather  late 
at  night.  I  had  seen  little  of  him,  but  I  had  heard 
from  one  of  his  friends  that  he  was  rather  enam- 
oured of  a  lady  in  the  "  Corps  du  Ballet,"  which 
fact,  of  course,  he  had  never  mentioned  to  me.  But 
one  fatal  evening  he  excitedly  approached  me,  and 
in  a  reckless  manner  asked  me  for  the  key  of  the 
box.  I  was  very  firm  with  him.  I  said,  "  No, 
George,  I  hold  the  key,  that  was  the  condition,  it 
is  the  only  way  to  save.  There  is  nothing  like 
thrift." 

"  I  know  all  about  that,"  he  said,  "  but  I  must 
have  the  key.  I  have  an  important  business  engage- 
ment to-night,  and  business  is  business.  I  may  want 
money." 

"  All  right,"  I  said,  "  will  sixpence  meet  your 
business  demands,  or  is  it  a  shilling  you  want?  "  I 
thought  that  by  borrowing  from  one  of  the  servants 
I  could  meet  the  demand  and  save  the  honour  of 
the  bank. 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense,"  he  answered  excitedly, 
"  hand  over  the  key  or  I  shall  have  to  smash  the 
box."  At  the  same  moment  he  seized  the  box  with 
both  hands  from  a  shelf  on  which  it  was  kept,  it 
was  so  light  it  almost  rose  in  the  air. 

With  dignity  I  handed  him  the  key!  He  opened 
the  precious  box,  it  was  full  of  paper.  "  Good 
Lord!  "  he  said,  "  what 's  all  this?  " 

I  felt  like  a  fraudulent  trustee,  but  held  my  own. 

25 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

"  George,"  I  said,  "  there  is  nothing  to  fear,  every 
penny  will  be  met  in  time.  It  will  probably  be  a 
long,  long  time,  but  it  will  be  met"  It  was  my  inten- 
tion to  pay  it  all  back  some  day,  and  I  explained  to 
him  that  it  was  not  fair  to  swoop  down  and  withdraw 
the  entire  contents,  and  I  was  quite  right.  What 
bank,  I  should  like  to  know,  could  stand  such  a  run? 
The  money-box  Bank  was  wound  up,  the  I.O.U.'s 
were  thrown  on  the  fire,  and  whatever  my  brother's 
business  engagement  was  that  evening  it  was  very 
much  "  off." 


26 


CHAPTER   III 

Student  Days  and  the  Royal  Academy 
Schools 

AS   I   have   said,   when   I   left   Simpson's,    I 

/  ^      went  to  the  West  London  School  of  Art 

/     %     in  Bolsover  Street,  Great  Portland  Street 

(it  was  a  branch  of  the  South  Kensington 

Museum),  and  commenced  seriously  to  study  Art. 

It  had  always  been  my  ardent  wish  to  become 
a  painter,  and  my  dear  mother,  who  was  a  Miss 
Weedon,  and  cousin  of  a  distinguished  Marine 
painter  of  that  name,  seconded  my  views  in  this 
direction  by  every  means  in  her  power.  My  father, 
without  actually  disturbing  the  idea,  would  have 
preferred  my  going  on  the  stage,  as  a  younger 
brother  of  his  had  made  a  great  success  when  a  child 
as  an  actor.  However,  he  gave  me  every  possible 
encouragement  during  my  artistic  studies. 

I  had  had  the  usual  preliminary  training  at 
Simpson's  in  drawing  from  the  flat,  and  now  com- 
menced drawing  with  charcoal  and  crayon  from 
objects,  cubes,  balls,  apples,  etc.,  in  plaster  casts,  and 
later  heads  and  hands  from  the  antique,  and  oh, 
how  difficult  they  were  to  draw.  In  the  evenings 
I  drew  from  the  male  living  figure;  my  tender  age 
precluded  me  from  drawing  from  the  fairer  sex. 

It  was  here  I  met  Claude  Hayes,  now  the  eminent 

27 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

Watercolour  Landscape  Artist,  and  son  of  the  late 
Edwin  Hayes,  the  famous  Marine  painter.  Herbert 
Lyndon  —  a  well-known  man  about  town  —  also 
studied  here,  also  Fred  Goodall  and  Pinhorn  Wood 
and  Alfred  Warner  the  Architect,  and  I  am  happy 
to  say  they  have  all  succeeded  in  their  different 
branches  of  Art. 

Between  my  Art  studies  I  was  learning  the  violin 
and  practising  an  hour  or  two  before  breakfast  at 
Campagnoli's  Exercises.  The  row  I  must  have  made 
in  the  house,  the  groaning  and  scraping!  But  I 
was  awfully  fond  of  the  violin,  and  Betjeman,  the 
first  violin  at  the  Royal  Opera,  Covent  Garden, 
was  kind  enough  to  give  me  special  instruc- 
tion in  bowing.  With  my  usual  vacillation  of 
character  I  got  so  keen  on  the  violin  that  it  was  soon 
encroaching  on  my  study  of  Art. 

I  was  rather  flattered  one  day  when  a  friend  of 
mine,  one  Baxter  an  artist  —  and  related  to  the 
painter  whose  name  has  become  famous  in  connec- 
tion with  the  Baxter  prints  —  who  had  drifted  from 
Art  into  Music  and  played  the  violin  well,  asked  me 
if  I  would  play  second  violin  for  a  couple  of  even- 
ings at  St.  George's  Hall?  He  had  to  find  a  band  for 
some  amateurs  who  had  taken  the  Hall  to  play  a 
Drama  and  a  Burlesque,  and  he  offered  me  a  sover- 
eign for  the  two  performances.  I  was  more  than  de- 
lighted to  play  as  a  professional  in  an  orchestra,  and 
whenever  I  met  Baxter  I  used  to  ask  when  we  were 
going  to  rehearse;  he  always  replied  that  he  would 
let  me  know.  I  was  under  the  impression  that  we 
should  have  a  whole  week's  rehearsals,  but  on  the 
night  before  the  actual  performance  he  told  me  to 
*8 


STUDENT   DAYS 

be  fairly  early  and  they  would  endeavour  to  squeeze 
in  ten  minutes '  "  run  through  "  before  the  doors 
were  open.  This  was  absolutely  appalling  to  me, 
but  Baxter  was  n't  a  bit  alarmed  on  my  behalf  and 
in  his  quiet  and  collected  manner  said,  "  You  '11  be 
all  right,  there  '11  be  another  second  besides  you, 
keep  your  eye  on  him  and  do  what  he  does."  I 
obeyed  Baxter's  instructions  as  well  as  I  could,  but 
I  must  have  made  a  hideous  row. 

Baxter,  who  was  conducting,  was  generally  look- 
ing round  the  building,  yawning,  then  upon  hear- 
ing a  cue,  such  as  "  Cur  and  coward,  defend 
yourself,"  he  gave  a  rap  with  his  baton  and  said 
to  us,  "  Hurry  on  F."  I  glared  at  the  music  and 
could  n't  see  where  I  was.  I  said  to  the  second, 
"  What  do  I  do?  "  "  Hurry  on  F  and  finish  on  fifth 
position,"  he  answered.  I  made  a  row  which  being 
drowned  by  the  shouting  of  those  on  the  stage  was 
fairly  effective.  But  I  did  n't  do  so  well  when  the 
heroine  was  dying  from  poison  and  seeing  the  face  of 
her  "  dear  mother  "  in  the  second  row  of  "  borders." 
Baxter  got  his  cue  all  right,  it  was  "  I  'm  not  long  for 
this  world,"  and  he  waved  his  hand  quietly.  I  got 
so  confused  that  for  the  moment  I  wished  /  was  n't 
either.  I  imploringly  asked  the  second  where  we 
were.  He  replied,  "  I  don't  know,  we  must  have 
turned  over  a  page  too  much,  but  it 's  easy  to  vamp; 
it 's  only  *  heart  foam  stuff.'  "  We  then  proceeded 
to  draw  out  long  pathetic  notes.  I  made  a  fearful 
row,  and  twice  my  bow  got  on  the  wrong  side 
of  the  bridge.  The  poor  girl  scowled  at  me 
several  times  and  then  died  in  agony,  and  death 
must  have  been  a  relief  to  her.    It  was  to  me. 

29 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

I  found  it  was  the  custom  and  etiquette  of  the 
band  to  adjourn  between  the  acts  to  the  nearest 
hostelry,  so  I  did  as  the  Romans  did.  I  asked  the 
members  of  the  Orchestra  (there  were  twelve) 
"what  they  would  hare?"  and  they  named  their 
favourite  poison,  and  the  young  lady  who  attended 
on  us  said  haughtily,  "  Band?  "  I  replied,  "  Why?  " 
11  Why,"  she  said,  "  because  you  're  entitled  to  twos 
instead  of  threes,  that's  why!"  That  is,  I  after- 
wards learned  that  the  spirituous  liquor  was  a  penny 
less  if  you  had  a  taste  for  music. 

I  don't  know  what  the  gentlemen  of  the  band 
thought  of  me,  I  know  what  they  thought  of  my 
playing,  but  they  were  very  kind  and  sympathetic, 
and  one  man  after  his  second  "  two "  asked  me 
whether  I  "  doubled."  I  was  compelled  to  ask  him 
for  an  explanation,  for  his  language  was  Greek 
to  me. 

"  Look  here,  laddie  boy,"  he  said,  patting  me  on 
the  shoulder,  "  you  're  only  a  youngster,  and  if 
you  're  going  to  make  music  your  living,  you  '11  have 
to  double,  and  if  I  were  you  I  should  learn  the 
'cello  as  well.  They  may  want  a  'cello  and  not  a 
fiddle,  see!  For  instance,  I  'double'  the  drum 
with  the  cornet,"  and  getting  very  confidential  he 
half  whispered,  "  And  what  is  more,  it  won't  pay 
you  to  '  full  dress  it '  every  time,  in  fact  you  can  wear 
what  you  like  on  your  lower  half,  it 's  never  seen." 
I  noticed  my  pal  of  the  drum  wore  a  dress  coat 
and  waistcoat  and  light  check  trousers.  I  looked 
round  among  my  fellow  musicians,  and  observed 
that  the  drummer's  comments  were  correct.  Several 
of  them  had  frock  or  morning  coats  and  a  white  tie 
30 


STUDENT    DAYS 

always,  but  the  lower  extremities  were  invariably 
checks,  and  the  Ophiclide  went  so  far  as  to  wear 
a  shining  pair  of  American  cloth  leggings  that 
reached  well  above  his  knees. 

It  was  all  a  most  amusing  experience  for  me, 
and  I  enjoyed  it  immensely. 

I  forget  whether  I  got  my  sovereign,  I  think  not; 
anyway,  I  was  n't  worth  it. 

One  day  after  I  had  been  scraping  on  the  violin 
for  a  couple  of  hours,  my  father  entered  the  room 
with  a  worn  look  on  his  face,  and  asked  me  whether 
I  was  "  hoping  to  be  a  fiddler  or  a  painter  "? 

I  replied,  "  A  painter,  of  course." 

"  I  'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  said,  "  and  I  think 
you  ought  to  be  at  the  Schools  at  your  work  instead 
of  disturbing  your  mother  and  myself  and  the 
neighbours.  But  one  thing  is  certain,  my  lad, 
and  that  is,  if  you  continue  your  study  of  the 
violin  one  of  two  things  must  happen,  I  must 
leave  the  house  or  you  must,  and  as  I  am  paying 
the  rent  and  rates,  I  am  more  entitled  to  the 
privileges  of  this  domicile  than  you  are."  I  took  the 
tip  and  went  in  for  Art  seriously  and  the  violin  only 
occasionally.  I  made  up  my  mind  with  dogged 
determination  to  get  into  the  Schools  of  the  Royal 
Academy,  and  worked  like  a  nigger  day  and  night, 
with  this  object  in  view,  also  studying  anatomy  at 
spare  times,  for  it  is  of  course  impossible  to  draw 
the  nude  figure  correctly,  unless  you  have  a  pretty 
fair  knowledge  of  what  is  under  the  skin,  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  bones  and  muscles,  the  outer  layers  and 
their  attachments. 

I  was  plucked  the  first  time,  but  succeeded  at  the 

3i 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

second  attempt  and  was  admitted  to  my  great  joy 
as  a  probationer  of  the  Royal  Academy  Schools. 
I  passed  my  probation  in  the  schools  in  a  few 
months  and  received  my  "  Bone,"  giving  me  the 
privilege  of  studying  in  the  schools  for  seven  years. 
I  always  considered  this  a  very  great  feather  in  my 
cap,  and  was  very  proud  of  it. 

Students  at  the  R.  A.  have  the  advantage  of  hav- 
ing the  Academicians  for  their  masters  and  teach- 
ers, and  of  about  half  a  dozen  models  sitting 
daily.  There  are  no  fees  to  pay,  not  a  penny, 
and  the  competition  for  studentship  is  open  to 
all  comers,  whether  he  be  a  prince  or  a  beggar 
boy. 

As  I  was  not  privileged  to  work  from  the  Nude 
at  the  R.  A.  in  the  evening  classes  till  I  had  passed 
further  examinations,  I  attended  the  evening  classes 
at  London  University,  at  the  Slade  School,  and 
drew  from  the  life  models  of  both  sexes. 

At  the  R.  A.  my  fellow  students  were  Arthur 
Cope,  R.  A.,  Alfred  Gilbert  the  Sculptor,  E.  A. 
Marshall, — a  painter  of  pretty  women,  and  member 
of  the  Suffolk  Street  Institution,  —  Forbes  Robert- 
son, the  actor,  who  had  already  started  on  his  Thes- 
pian career  at  the  time  I  entered  the  R.  A.  as  a 
student,  Arthur  Hacker  and  Solomon  J.  Solomon, 
now  both  Royal  Academicians,  were  also  my  fellow 
students.  Herbert  Schmaltz  and  "  Jolly  James 
Christie,"  the  Glasgow  painter,  whom  I  frequently 
meet  now  when  touring  the  North ;  he  recites  "  Tarn 
O'Shanter  "  better  than  any  man  living.  I  was  also 
contemporary  with  those  two  brilliant  painters 
Stanhope  Forbes  and  Henry  La  Thanque,  and 
3* 


■H 


WEEDOX   GROSSMITH 


A    HALF    HOUR'S    SKETCH    BY    FRANK    HOI. I.,    R.A. 
Painted  in  oils  />)'  candle  light 


STUDENT   DAYS 

Percy  Macquoid,  R.  A.  The  latter  we  looked  up  to 
as  a  great  swell ;  he  never  seemed  to  overwork,  but 
he  could  accomplish  in  ten  minutes  what  it  took 
other  students  a  couple  of  hours  to  do  —  in  drawing 
—  and  he  is  now  one  of  the  busiest  artists  of  the  day. 
One  of  the  greatest  authorities  on  costume  and  an- 
tique furniture  (on  which  subject  he  has  written  a 
fine  work) ,  armour  and  silver  of  every  period,  he  has 
of  late  years  been  responsible  for  the  costumes  and 
scenic  arrangements  of  the  finest  theatrical  pro- 
ductions in  London,  notably  those  magnificent 
stage  pictures  of  Beerbohm  Tree's:  "Nero," 
"  Ulysses,"  "  Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  "  False 
Gods,"  "Henry  VIII,"  "Othello,"  etc.,  to  men- 
tion only  a  few. 

I  am  naturally  very  proud  of  the  successes  of 
my  old  fellow  students,  being  one  of  those  men  to 
whom  it  gives  no  pleasure  while  clambering  up 
the  ladder  of  fame  to  meet  old  friends  sliding  down 
or  floundering  about  at  the  bottom  rung. 

Though  I  missed  the  bull's  eye  as  a  painter,  I 
have  been  fairly  successful  in  the  Sister  Art  of 
'Acting.  I  have  no  complaint  to  make,  no  griev- 
ances to  air,  and  am  at  peace  with  all  men,  and  I 
have  n't  to  my  knowledge  an  enemy  in  the  world, 
nor  has  anyone,  I  hope,  a  grievance  against  me,  un- 
less it  be  my  old  friend  Seymour  Lucas,  R.  A., 
who,  when  we  meet,  almost  invariably  calls  me  a 
"  traitor "  for  having  forsaken  the  palette  and 
brush,  and  I  am  bound  to  admit  I  sometimes  feel 
guilty  of  having  obtained  my  Academic  instruc- 
tion under  false  pretences.  For  it  was  n't  very  long 
after  I  left  the  Royal  Academy  that  I  deserted 

33 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

painting,  —  vacillating  creature  that  I  am  and 
always  have  been,  —  to  go  on  the  stage. 

The  late  Frank  Holl,  one  of  my  best  and  dearest 
friends  and  one  of  the  finest  portrait  painters  of 
this  century,  went  further,  for  he  told  me  when  he 
was  a  student  at  the  R.  A.  he  took  the  gold  medal, 
which  carried  with  it  the  privilege  of  two  years' 
free  study  in  Rome,  and  a  handsome  allowance 
from  the  Academy,  but  he  threw  it  up  directly 
he  got  to  Rome  to  come  back  and  get  married,  so 
that  the  two  years'  study  was  lost,  no  student  hav- 
ing had  the  benefit  of  the  travelling  studentship 
for  that  period.  His  father,  the  famous  engraver, 
said,  "  Frank,  you  will  never  be  an  Academician 
now.    They  will  never  forgive  you  for  this." 

But  they  did,  and  he  was  a  full-blown  R.  A.  when 
he  was  thirty-six  years  of  age.  But  to  return  to 
the  R.  A.  I  worked  pretty  hard  at  the  Academy 
schools  and  quickly  passed  my  exam,  for  the  paint- 
ing class,  and  was  admitted  into  what  is  termed 
the  "  Upper  life." 

In  the  daytime  there  would  be  models  sitting  in 
fancy  costumes,  perhaps  a  pretty  girl  wearing  a 
hat  and  feathers. 

When  we  had  finished  our  study,  if  it  turned  out 
well,  we  touched  up  the  background  a  bit,  put  it 
into  a  frame,  called  the  picture  "  Marie "  or 
11  Clarice,"  and  sent  it  to  the  Suffolk  Street  Ex- 
hibition or  the  Dudley  Gallery,  and  they  were 
frequently  sold,  and  the  Secretary  of  one  of  the 
exhibitions  told  me  that  they  were  generally  bought 
by  men,  the  face  reminding  them  of  someone  they 
loved  before  they  were  married,  and  he  added,  "  If 
34 


STUDENT   DAYS 

they  could  invite  the  men  to  private  views  without 
the  wives  they  would  sell  double  the  number  of 
pictures." 

I  remember  sending  a  small  picture  to  the  Suffolk 
Street  Galleries.  I  had  exhibited  there  before  with 
some  little  success,  but  this  time  received  the  notice 
informing  me  that  "  from  want  of  space,  etc.  etc.," 
so  a  few  days  later  I  called  at  the  back  entrance  in 
Whitcombe  Street  to  get  my  picture  back.  A  jolly- 
looking  porter  whom  I  knew  came  to  the  door, 
expressed  his  sorrow  that  my  picture  was  not  hung; 
he  said,  "  Oh,  Mr.  Grossmith,  I  am  sorry,  I  wish 
I  had  known  you  had  sent  something."  "  I  don't 
know  how  you  could  influence  the  hanging  com- 
mittee," I  replied.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  I  could  n't 
influence  'em.  But  if  I  'd  known  you  had  sent 
anything,  while  they  'd  gone  out  to  lunch  I  could 
have  popped  it  up  on  the  wall,  and  when  they 
came  back  they  would  be  none  the  wiser,  they  'd 
have  thought  they  had  hung  it  themselves !  I  've 
often  done  it!!!" 


35 


CHAPTER    IV 
My  First  Studio,  8  Fitzroy  Street,  W. 

I  HAD  NT  been  in  the  R.  A.  Schools  much 
more  than  a  year  before  I  took  a  room  in 
Fitzroy  Street.  I  put  the  shutters  up  half- 
way from  the  bottom  and  called  it  a  studio, 
and  very  soon  the  smell  of  tobacco  and  paint  gave  it 
the  professional  aroma.  I  painted  a  three-quarter- 
length  portrait  of  my  father  which  was  hung  at  the 
Academy,  which  pleased  me  very  much.  This  got 
me  a  commission  to  paint  the  late  J.  O.  Griffits, 
Q.  C,  recorder  of  Reading.  This  portrait  is  now 
hanging  in  the  Free  Library  at  High  Wycombe. 
Most  of  the  rooms  in  the  Fitzroy  Street  house  were 
let  to  Artists,  but  there  was  "  no  attendance,"  so 
one  had  to  open  the  door  in  person  to  one's  visitors 
and  one's  creditors  and  models. 

I  was  fortunate  in  selling  several  little  pictures  of 
children  —  there  seemed  in  those  days  to  be  a  good 
demand  for  pictures  of  rustic  children,  "  Carry- 
ing a  basket  of  apples,"  "  Taking  dinner  to  Dadda," 
and  the  little  money  one  paid  them  to  sit  was  of 
great  use  to  the  parents  who  had  five  or  six  little 
mouths  to  feed. 

One  day  a  little  girl  of  eight,  the  daughter  of 
very  poor  parents,  who  had  been  sitting  to  me  for  a 
picture  of  the  "  pot-boiling  "  class  arrived  with  a 
36 


MY   FIRST   STUDIO 

rather  big  wax  doll  in  her  arms,  and  with  a  message 
from  her  mother  to  ask  me,  "  being  an  Artist," 
whether  I  would  repaint  the  Doll's  face,  it  having 
at  some  time  or  other  got  too  near  the  fire  and  the 
paint  and  the  features  were  entirely  obliterated.  I 
was  delighted  to  please  the  youngster  and,  not  with- 
out a  good  deal  of  trouble,  repainted  the  Doll's  face 
as  artistically  as  I  possibly  could,  as  I  would  paint 
the  portrait  of  a  baby,  and  as  I  had  painted  a  good 
many  in  my  time  I  flattered  myself  on  that  line  of 
portraiture.  I  was  rather  proud  of  the  result, 
having  got  realism  into  my  work,  and  certainly 
obtained  something  like  Nature  on  the  wax  form 
in  the  pearly  grey  flesh  tints,  and  the  drawing  of 
the  features,  and  imagine  my  feelings  on  turning 
the  doll  round  for  the  approval  of  the  little  girl, 
who  on  gazing  at  it  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 
She  was  dreadfully  disappointed  and  said  I  had 
"  spoiled  Dolly."  So  with  a  rag  I  rubbed  off  what 
I  had  painted,  put  a  very  pale  tint  of  pink  all 
over  the  face,  two  round  daubs  of  crimson  on  the 
cheeks  also  a  dab  of  crimson  for  the  lips  less  than 
half  the  size  of  the  eyes,  two  large  arched  eye- 
brows, and  black  lines  above  and  below  the  eyes  for 
the  eyelashes.  The  child  smiled  again.  It  was 
her  doll  once  more,  it  was  perfect. 

Before  "  sending  in  "  to  the  R.  A.  I  would,  like 
most  artists,  issue  invitations  to  view  the  pictures, 
and  I  hired  a  waiter  for  the  occasion  and 
tea  was  dispensed  in  the  front  room  on  my  floor, 
occupied  by  Mr.  Brooks,  a  decorative  artist,  who 
was  good  enough  to  take  a  holiday  on  this  occasion 
so  that  I  could  have  the  use  of  his  room. 

37 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

The  usual  number  of  Bohemians  turned  up,  also 
a  fair  sprinkling  of  Art  patrons,  who  generally 
asked  the  price  of  the  pictures,  but  rarely  bought 
any.  Their  carriages  made  a  display  which  was 
all  good  for  my  credit.  I  happened  to  be  look- 
ing out  of  the  front  window  when  to  my  horror 
I  saw  some  so-called  "  smart "  people,  who  had 
just  alighted  from  their  carriage,  trying  to  get  to  the 
door,  but  were  stopped  because  an  Italian  artist  who 
occupied  the  first  floor  was  having  a  most  unseemly 
altercation  on  the  doorstep  with  a  man  who  was 
demanding  sixpence  for  having  soldered  an  old 
kettle  which  the  artist  was  waving  in  the  air  while 
shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice  that  "  he  would  be 

d d  if  he  would  pay  more  than  twopence  for  it." 

This  was  by  no  means  a  good  advertisement  for  a 
man  who  was  endeavouring  to  become  a  fashionable 
portrait  painter.  Arthur  Cecil,  Corney  Grain,  and 
J.  L.  Toole,  who  all  witnessed  the  incident,  were 
far  more  amused  at  it  than  I  was. 

While  in  Fitzroy  Street  I  became  acquainted 
with  George  Giddens,  the  actor,  who  had  a  studio 
close  by,  and  Seymour  Lucas,  who  had  a  studio  in 
Cavendish  Square  and  lived  in  Queen's  Square. 
He  was  from  the  first  a  great  friend  of  mine,  a 
thorough  Bohemian,  simple  and  unaffected.  I 
remember  on  one  occasion  when  I  was  shooting  at 
Walter  Webb's,  at  Ewhurst  in  Surrey,  the  head 
keeper  mentioned  a  Mr.  Lucas,  an  Artist  who  was 
painting  in  the  village.  "  Oh,"  I  said,  "  I  know  him 
well,  Seymour  Lucas,  the  Royal  Academician." 
"  Oh  dear,  no,"  replied  the  keeper,  "  that  could  n't 
be  he,  there  's  nothing  Royal  about  this  Artist.  Why, 
38 


MY   FIRST   STUDIO 

he  walks  about  the  village  in  his  slippers,  smoking  a 
long  clay  pipe."    I  had  spotted  the  winner. 

A  well-known  model  named  Foster,  who  used  to 
sit  a  good  deal  to  Fred  Barnard  and  Charles  Green 
and  Seymour  Lucas,  was  a  great  character,  an 
awfully  good  chap,  a  splendid  sitter,  and  a  well- 
read  and  intelligent  man.  He  was  so  much  in 
demand  at  that  time  that  perhaps  if  he  got  a  bit 
spoilt  it  was  really  the  fault  of  the  artists  who 
encouraged  him. 

I  modelled  the  character  of  "  Gloucester "  in 
my  one-act  play  of  "  A  Commission  "  from  him,  the 
part  my  friend  Brandon  Thomas  played  magnifi- 
cently, so  well,  indeed,  that  I  could  n't  imagine 
it  being  played  better,  though  Burford  Morrison, 
a  distinguished  amateur  actor  who  has  also  played 
it  many  times,  says  I  am  wrong. 

To  return  to  Foster.  While  sitting  he  would  start 
a  conversation  in  the  following  manner.  "  Teddy 
Leighton  "  —  referring  to  the  President  —  "  was 
rather  humorous  the  other  day,  quite  the  excep- 
tion for  him!"  Or,  "Johnnie  Millais  was  quite 
at  his  best  last  week,  yarning  to  me  about  the  forty- 
pound  salmon  he  had  gaffed.  I  suppose  it 's 
natural.  He  can  sell  a  thousand-pound  picture 
every  other  week,  but  he  can't  get  a  forty-pound 
salmon  once  a  year.  Do  you  mind  if  I  help  my- 
self to  another  pipe  of  your  tobacco,  sir?  Thank 
you,  sir.  Talking  of  smoking,  I  was  sitting  to  little 
Lucas  the  other  day." 

"  Do  you  mean  Mr.  Seymour  Lucas?  "  I  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Foster,  "there's  no  other,  is  there? 
Well,  a  well-known  patron  of  art,  living  in  Caven- 

39 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

dish  Square  —  you  know  him,  Mr.  Grossmith  — 
dropped  in  to  see  Lucas  —  very  good  sort,  had 
rather  hot  argument  on  Dickens  and  Thackeray! " 

"  Really,"  I  said,  rather  astonished,  "  while  Mr. 
Lucas  was  painting  the  Gordon  Riots." 

"  Wrong,  sir,  he  was  painting  Drake  playing 
bowls.  Well,  '  Cavendish  Square '  gave  me  a 
cigar  and  said,  '  Foster,  put  that  in  your  pocket 
and  smoke  it  after  dinner.'  " 

"Which  you  did,  Foster,  eh?" 

"Wrong  again,  sir,"  said  Foster.  "I  took  two 
whiffs  and  chucked  it  out  of  the  window.  A  two- 
penny stink !  That  cigar  was  probably  good  enough 
for  Teddy  Leighton,  Johnnie  Millais,  or  Little 
Lucas,  but  not  for  Foster,  oh  dear,  no! "  Perhaps 
he  did  smoke  it,  and  was  only  trying  to  impress 
me.  I  '11  ask  him  for  the  truth  when  I  see  him,  for 
he  was  and  is,  with  all  his  little  failings,  a  thor- 
oughly good  fellow  and  was  devoted  to  his  poor 
mother,  who  depended  entirely  on  him  for  her 
support. 

I  had  invited  my  mother  and  a  friend  of  hers  to 
tea  at  the  studio  one  afternoon,  and  was  expecting 
them  at  half-past  four,  and  at  that  time  there  was 
a  knock  at  the  front  door  which  was  opened  by  some- 
one who  happened  to  be  going  out,  which  just 
gave  me  time  to  remove  an  old  painting  coat  and 
don  something  more  respectable.  There  was  a 
gentle  tap  at  the  studio  door,  which  I  opened,  ex- 
pecting to  welcome  the  mater  and  her  friend,  when 
in  walked  three  girls,  "models!"  "Oh,  Mr. 
Weedon  Grossmith,"  said  the  eldest,  "  we  Ve  got 
an  introduction  to  you  from  Mr.  Curtice  for 
40 


MY   FIRST   STUDIO 

sittings,  we  're  *  figure,'  you  know.  I  should  like 
you  to  see  us.  I  'm  ■  full,'  but  my  sister  Edie  is 
1  slight.'  'Ere,  Edie,  slip  yer  things  off  and  show 
Mr.  Grossmith."  "  Oh,  no,  not  now,"  I  hastily 
replied,  "  not  now.  I  'm  —  er  —  expecting  some 
friends."  "  It  '11  only  take  a  minute,"  she  answered, 
"  and  I  would  like  you  to  see  Kate's  shoulders,  she  's 
got  beautiful  colouring."  "  Some  other  time,"  I 
hurriedly  replied,  "  but  I  '11  take  your  names  and 
addresses,"  and  I  proceeded  to  my  desk,  and  open- 
ing the  model  book,  wrote  down  the  names  and 
addresses;  on  turning  round,  to  my  amazement 
they  had  slipped  off  all  their  things  on  the  floor  in 
a  heap,  and  were  posing  in  far  less  than  Maud 
Allan  ever  left  on.  In  another  second  I  heard  the 
hall  door  open  and  my  mother's  voice  thanking 
someone,  and  saying  she  knew  the  way  to  my 
studio. 

This  was  a  dreadful  moment  for  me;  there  was 
a  door  leading  to  my  fellow  artist's  room.  This 
was  generally  locked  on  both  sides.  I  unlocked  my 
side,  and  the  door  opened,  and  fortunately  his  room 
was  empty;  so  I  pushed  the  girls  through  and 
threw  their  clothes  after  them  and  hastily  shut 
the  door.  It  was  a  most  unseemly  struggle,  just 
as  my  mother  and  her  friend  entered  my  studio. 

I  saved  the  situation  for  myself,  but  got  my 
brother  artist  into  a  terrible  scrape,  for  a  minute 
or  two  later  his  fiancee  and  her  mother,  whom  he 
had  invited  to  tea,  entered  his  room  and  discovered 
three  giggling  girls  only  partially  attired.  My 
friend  had  run  short  of  sugar  and  had  rushed  out 
to  buy  some.    The  situation  was  very  awkward  for 

4i 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

him,  and  he  told  me  it  required  a  good  deal  of 
explanation,  as  a  designer  of  furniture  does  not  need 
living  models  of  the  female  form  divine,  and  his 
engagement  was  in  danger  of  being  broken  off. 
In  my  experience,  the  generality  of  models  are  hard- 
working respectable  girls.  But  there  are  two 
distinct  classes  of  models,  those  who  sit  for  the 
figure  and  those  who  are  draped  and  who  only  sit 
for  costume  or  for  the  face  and  hands.  The  latter 
I  have  always  found  exceedingly  nice  girls.  There 
were  many  ladies  sitting  then,  as  there  probably 
are  now,  women  of  good  position  but  small  means, 
and  the  wonder  is  that  many  more  girls  whose 
appearance  has  been  favoured  by  nature  do  not 
adopt  this  pleasant  means  of  earning  a  few  pounds 
a  week. 

My  picture  being  rejected  from  the  Academy, 
and  a  rejection  of  another  kind,  which  for  the 
moment  was  far  more  vital  to  me,  made  me  regard 
London  as  a  detestable  place,  more  especially 
Fitzroy  Street,  which  I  had  always  loved.  I  am 
happy  to  say  after  many  years  my  affection  has 
returned  for  that  delightful  old  neighbourhood. 

Fitzroy  Square  is  particularly  interesting  with 
its  finely  designed  houses  and  its  beautifully  pro- 
portioned rooms  and  noble  exteriors.  Shame  on 
us  as  a  nation  that  such  architecture  should  have 
become  simply  a  nest  of  Nursing  Homes  and 
foreign  restaurants  and  the  refuge  of  the  alien, 
alasl 

In  the  midst  of  this  temporary  gloom  I  received 
a  most  enticing  letter  from  my  fellow  student 
Marshall  to  join  him  at  Olney  in  Buckinghamshire. 
42 


MY   FIRST   STUDIO 

I  jumped  at  the  idea,  and  lived  happily  at  Olney 
painting  there  for  five  months.  Cowper  the  poet, 
I  believe,  went  to  Olney  to  die  and  lived  happily 
for  twenty  years.  I  went  there  in  despair,  but  in 
less  than  a  week  had  discovered  Elysium  —  Olney 
to  me  was  Arcadia. 

We  lived  very  cheaply  in  a  delightful  old 
cottage,  painting  chiefly  "  pot-boilers  "  from  sun- 
rise to  sunset,  and  fishing  in  the  River  Ouse  in  the 
evening,  and  many  a  good  pike,  bream,  and  perch 
we  banked  in  the  Mill  Stream  of  Hipwell's  Brew- 
ery. What  a  fascination  there  is  in  watching  the 
top  of  a  quill  float  as  it  bobs  a  bit,  "  twists  round," 
and  then  suddenly  shoots  down  sideways  and  dis- 
appears into  deep  water,  and  the  strike  and  the 
"Tang  "of  the  line! 

But  these  delightful  days  naturally  became 
shorter  towards  the  end  of  October,  and  by  the 
first  week  in  November  a  mist  rose  from  the  flooded 
river.  The  Ouse  is  a  stream  that  will  with  the 
slightest  provocation  rise  and  flood  the  adjacent 
meadows  in  a  couple  of  days.  This  finished  the 
fishing,  and  fog  and  mist  were  not  conducive  to 
painting.  It  was  dark  about  four,  and  the  evenings 
were  long,  sometimes  very  long.  So  we  decided 
to  return  to  the  great  city. 

How  delightful  it  was  once  again  to  see  the  lights 
of  King's  Cross,  and  even  the  Roads  of  Pentonville 
and  Euston  were  attractive  to  us,  and  the  noise  of 
the  traffic  was  music  in  our  ears. 

In  that  year  I  went  to  spend  a  very  pleasant 
Christmas  at  the  "  Platts  "  near  Stourbridge  —  a 
very  nice  old  house,  the  picturesque  residence  of 

43 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

the  late  Mr.  Hodgetts,  a  big  glass  manufacturer 
in  the  neighbourhood.  It  was  one  of  those  delight- 
ful visits  where  you  are  asked  for  a  week  and  stay 
a  month.  Some  festivity  took  place  every  night, 
games,  dances,  and  dinners.  So  happy  was  I  that 
I  quite  forgot  that  some  day  I  should  have  to  return 
to  work  and  hard  struggles  —  not  that  I  minded 
that,  but  in  the  happy  lounging  existence  one  is 
apt  to  forget  it  at  times. 

I  was  taken  by  my  hostess  to  a  most  cheery 
dance  in  the  neighbourhood,  given  by  Mr.  Holber- 
ton,  where  I  was  so  happy  that  during  the  evening 
my  exuberance  of  spirits  occasioned  me  to  make 
an  ass  of  myself. 

It  is  always  very  dangerous  to  be  funny  unless 
you  have  a  reputation  for  being  humorous;  then 
in  that  case  it  does  n't  matter  what  you  say  or  do. 
Since  this  incident  occurred  I  have  acquired  that 
reputation,  very  many  years  after  the  story  I  am 
about  to  relate.  I  have  sometimes  told  a  comic 
story  and  have  absolutely  forgotten  the  point,  but 
my  audience  have  laughed  all  the  same,  probably 
because  they  did  n't  want  to  be  thought  ignorant 
in  not  seeing  the  point  of  the  joke.  But  when  you 
have  no  reputation,  beware,  and  it  was  at  Mr. 
Holberton's  that  I  made  that  fatal  mistake  of  "  try- 
ing to  be  funny."  I  had  taken  down  a  very  pretty 
and  charming  girl  to  supper,  and  ought  to  have 
been  thoroughly  satisfied  with  my  picturesque  com- 
panion and  the  pleasant  surroundings,  but  whether 
I  wanted  to  make  myself  popular  and  raise  myself 
in  her  estimation,  or  whether  from  a  philanthropic 
point   of    view    I    wanted    to    enliven    the    other 


MY   FIRST   STUDIO 

guests,  who  were  perhaps  a  little  quiet,  I  am  not 
sure,  but  it  occurred  to  me  suddenly  that  the  time 
was  ripe  for  me  to  get  off  a  joke  that  my  brother 
George  had  often  perpetrated,  and  never  failed 
in,  forgetting  that  he  had  the  reputation  and  that 
I  had  not. 

The  point  of  the  joke  is  —  at  a  dinner  or  supper 
table,  when  everyone  is  engaged  in  conversation, 
suddenly  to  rise,  having  given  the  table  a  slight  rap 
underneath;  the  result  being  that  the  conversation 
stops,  people  thinking  you  are  about  to  make  a 
speech,  and  sometimes  someone  will  say,  "  Hear! 
Hear  I"  and  there  is  general  attention,  then  in  a 
mild  voice  you  ask  someone  to  pass  the  bread  or 
champagne,  thank  them,  and  sit  down  quietly. 
There  is  a  look  of  amazement  for  a  moment  and 
then  roars  of  laughter.  It  is  about  the  only  joke 
I  know  of  that  is  almost  a  certainty.  Cecil  Clay 
told  me  that  he  had  tried  it  on  all  kinds  of  occa- 
sions, appropriate  or  otherwise,  and  had  never 
known  it  fail.  This  occasion  at  Stourbridge  was 
the  exception. 

I  hesitated  several  times  before  I  made  the  at- 
tempt. Shall  I  do  it,  I  thought,  or  shan't  I?  Have 
I  known  my  host  long  enough?  I  had  known  him 
two  hours,  and  my  companion,  the  pretty  Miss 
Giles,  seeing  I  was  a  bit  worried,  asked  me  whether 
she  was  boring  me.  This  decided  me.  I  did  n't 
reply.  I  suddenly  gave  the  table  a  rap  —  was  it 
hard  enough?  I  wondered.  However,  I  rose  to 
my  feet  and  called  upon  a  man  near  me  to  "  pass 
the  champagne."  He  was  busily  engaged  with  his 
back  half-turned  to  me,  talking  to  a  girl;  he  handed 

45 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

me  the  wine,  saying  he  was  "  very  sorry,"  and  re- 
sumed the  conversation,  and  I  sat  down  in  solemn 
silence  and  helped  myself  to  a  glass.  Miss  Giles' 
expression  conveyed  to  me  that  she  thought  I  was 
rather  rude ;  in  fact  only  a  few  noticed  me  at  all,  and 
they  a  little  unpleasantly;  some,  I  am  sure,  thought  I 
had  been  drinking;  but  there  was  one  who  had 
heard  me  ask  for  the  champagne  who  was  highly 
indignant,  namely,  the  host,  who  in  angry  tones 
called  his  butler  to  order  for  not  attending  to  his 
guests.  I  heard  the  poor  old  butler,  in  confused 
speech,  assure  Mr.  Holberton  that  he  had  taken 
the  wine  round  that  side  of  the  table  quite  recently. 

"  Don't  argue  with  me,"  my  host  replied,  "  but 
do  your  duty  —  that  gentleman  on  the  left  side  of 
the  table,  Mr.  Grossmith,  has  just  risen  from  his 
seat  and  asked  for  some." 

The  butler,  almost  in  tears,  said  he  had  only  just 
offered  the  gentleman  wine  and  he  had  declined. 
To  my  horror  I  heard  my  host  telling  the  butler 
not  to  lie,  and  he  would  speak  to  him  in  the 
morning. 

I  don't  know  when  I  felt  more  miserable.  I 
could  n't  permit  the  old  servant  to  get  into  trouble, 
he  was  looking  at  me  with  an  expression  on  his  face 
almost  pitiable,  so  I  rose  from  my  seat  and  walked 
to  my  host,  and  addressing  him  said: 

"  I  'm  awfully  sorry  —  it  is  my  fault." 

"  It 's  not  your  fault  at  all,"  he  replied,  "  and  I 
must  apologise  on  behalf  of  my  servant,  who  has 
been  with  us  too  long." 

"  No,  no,"  I  stammered.    "  Please.    It 's  a  joke." 

"  It 's  no  joke  at  all  to  have  my  guests  neglected," 
46 


MY   FIRST   STUDIO 

answered  my  irate  host.  "  He  has  taken  advantage 
of  long  service,  and  this  episode  has  decided  me. 
I  shall  give  him  notice  to-morrow." 

I  don't  know  when  I  felt  more  embarrassed,  and 
at  last  I  insisted  on  a  hearing,  and  entered  into  a 
lengthy  explanation  of  the  joke,  which  eventually 
my  host  saw  the  point  of,  and  gave  vent  to  a  little 
moderate  laughter,  and  made  matters  worse  by 
saying,  "  /  think  that 's  very  funny.  Do  it 
again!!!  " 

My  evening  was  spoilt,  and  when  I  went  to  re- 
sume my  seat,  my  pretty  partner  had  gone  into  the 
ballroom  to  dance  with  a  handsomer  man. 

Injured  Innocence 

As  an  instance  of  how  an  innocent  person  may  be 
unjustly  suspected  I  give  the  following  example :  — 

When  I  was  a  young  man,  living  with  my  parents, 
I  returned  home  later  one  night  than  I  was  accus- 
tomed to  and  feeling  comfortably  tired  —  it  was 
perhaps  a  little  after  twelve  o'clock.  I  found  my 
people  sitting  up  for  me  and  playing  at  Besique. 
They  had  not  finished  their  game  so  I  took  up  a 
newspaper  to  read  for  five  minutes  before  retiring. 
My  father  asked  me  whether  I  would  take  anything 
to  drink,  and  on  my  replying  in  the  negative  he 
said,  "  Perhaps  you  We  right/'  I  did  n't  quite  like 
the  way  he  said  it,  for  there  seemed  to  me  a  slight 
suggestion  that  I  had  already  taken  sufficient  —  a 
most  unfounded  suspicion,  for  I  had  only  had  one 
drink  during  the  whole  evening. 

I    continued    reading   and    presently   drew   my 

47 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

mother's  attention  to  an  interesting  case  in  which  a 
police  constable  pursued  a  man  who  had  climbed  a 
tree  to  evade  capture  and  had  followed  him  there. 

"  Have  you  read  this,  Guv'nor?  "  I  said. 

"Read  what?"  answered  my  father — rather 
testy  at  being  interrupted  in  his  game. 

"  Why,"  I  said,  "  about  a  Bolly  up  the  tree." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  my  father  coldly. 

"  I  thought  I  spoke  distinctly  enough,"  I 
answered. 

"  You  were  more  or  less  distinct,  my  boy,"  he  re- 
plied, "  but  I  don't  understand  you.  I  fail  to  grasp 
the  meaning  of  the  word  *  Bolly.'  " 

"  '  Bobby,'  "  I  answered,  "  means  a  policeman." 

"  Then  you  should  have  said  '  bobby '  and  not 
1  bolly.' " 

I  laughed  at  my  stupid  mistake  and  assured  my 
father  that  I  had  certainly  meant  to  say  '  bobby.'  " 

"  Then  it 's  a  pity  you  did  n't  say  it,"  he  replied. 
"  Perhaps  it 's  due  to  the  lateness  of  the  hour." 

I  confess  I  felt  a  little  annoyed  and  with  some 
dignity  said,  "  My  dear  guv'nor,  you  surely  don't 
suggest  that  I  —  " 

"  I  don't  suggest  anything,  my  lad.  I  think  you 
are  tired  and  should  go  to  bed." 

"  Quite  right,"  I  said,  "lama  little  tired,  but 
there  is  no  necossity  to  insinuate  —  " 

My  father  quietly  remarked  that  if  I  meant 
necessity  it  was  spelt  without  an  "  o." 

With  very  great  dignity  I  replaced  the  newspaper 
on  the  table  and  rising  from  my  chair,  said,  "  Father, 
are  you  under  the  impression  that  I  have  been 
drinking?  " 
48 


MY   FIRST   STUDIO 

He  simply  said,  "  I  am  no  judge  "  and  went  on 
with  his  game. 

I  made  no  further  answer.  I  kissed  my  mother 
and  wished  her  good  night:  I  bowed  to  my  father 
with  stilted  politeness,  but  as  I  approached  the  door 
I  most  unfortunately  caught  my  foot  in  the  rug  and 
absolutely  rolled  on  the  floor,  and  as  I  walked  up- 
stairs I  heard  my  father  say,  "  Bolly,  Necossity  — 
Yes,  it 's  quite  time  that  boy  went  to  bed." 


49 


CHAPTER   V 

82  Gower  Street 

MY  next  studio  was  at  82  Gower  Street, 
now  pulled  down,  and  on  the  site  stands 
a  huge  Gothic  building,  "  Flats."  No. 
82  Gower  Street  was  built  by  the 
famous  brothers  Adam  about  1770  for  Lord  Eldon 
(Lord  Chancellor),  who  afterwards  moved  to  No.  6 
Bedford  Square,  (Bedford  House),  and  during 
the  Corn  Law  Riots  the  mob  attacked  the  house 
at  night,  and  Lord  and  Lady  Eldon  climbed  over 
the  wall  into  the  gardens  of  the  British  Museum 
and  took  refuge  in  the  guard-house. 

A  young  dentist  named  Hugh  Barber  had  taken 
No.  82  Gower  Street  and  expended  a  good  deal  of 
money  in  doing  it  up.  He  let  half  the  house  to  me 
and  we  shared  the  attendance,  which  consisted  of 
a  Housekeeper  and  a  Page  boy. 

My  chief  rooms  were  on  the  first  floor,  a  drawing- 
room  in  front,  and  studio  at  the  back.  Barber 
occupied  the  ground  floor  for  his  reception  and 
consulting  rooms. 

Hugh  Barber  is  now  a  most  prosperous  dentist 
at  Newcastle,  Tynemouth  and  Whitley  Bay,  but 
in  those  days  he,  like  many  other  young  men  in  the 
Dental  or  Medical  professions,  made  the  mistake  of 
50 


82    GOWER   STREET 

imagining  that,  by  simply  placing  a  brass  plate  on 
the  front  door,  patients  would  be  induced  to  flock 
there  in  hundreds. 

There  was  the  green  velvet  chair,  all  ready  to 
be  wound  up,  but  there  was  no  rush  for  it  I 

Barber  naturally  got  tired  of  this  weary  waiting, 
and  used  to  vary  the  monotony  by  going  out,  and 
remaining  out  for  hours  at  a  stretch. 

The  patients  were  very  few  and  far  between. 
One  day  I  heard  a  gentleman's  voice  enquiring  for 
Mr.  Barber,  when  the  following  duologue  took 
place: 

Gent.    This  is  Mr.  Barber's  House? 

Boy.    Yes,  sir. 

Gent.    Is  he  at  home? 

Boy.    No,  sir. 

Gent.    Not  at  home!    Then  what  are  his  hours? 

Boy.    I  don't  know,  sir. 

Gent.  You  don't  know?  He  will  surely  be  in  in 
the  course  of  an  hour? 

Boy.    I  should  n't  like  to  say  so. 

Gent.  I  wish  to  see  him  professionally,  and  I 
presume  he  will  be  in  some  time  to-day? 

Boy.  He  might,  or  he  might  n't.  Sometimes  he 
goes  out  and  don't  come  home  not  till  the  evening, 
and  sometimes  he  goes  out  and  don't  come  home 
not  at  all,  all  night,  not  till  the  next  morning!! 

I  heard  the  gentleman  muttering,  "  most  unpro- 
fessional," as  he  left. 

Barber  was  assistant  Dental  Surgeon  then  to  the 
Temperance  Hospital  in  the  Hampstead  Road, 
and  perhaps  he  was  there,  giving  pain  or  relieving 
it,  during  this  duologue,  but  I  think  not.    He  was 

5i 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

always  a  very  skilful  dentist,  but  it  naturally  takes 
a  long  time  to  build  up  a  practice. 

On  one  of  these  occasions  when  he  was  "  out," 
an  elderly  gentleman  who  had  knocked  several 
times  at  the  door  before  it  was  opened,  burst  into 
the  hall  with  a  handkerchief  to  his  face.  He  was 
evidently  in  great  pain,  and,  on  enquiring  whether 
Mr.  Barber  was  at  home,  received  the  usual  truth- 
ful, but  tactless,  reply  from  the  boy  that  he  was  not. 

I  happened  to  be  dressed  in  my  frock  coat,  as 
I  was  going  to  make  a  call  on  a  probable  victim 
for  a  portrait,  and  determined  to  save  the  situation 
for  Barber,  if  possible.  I  could  n't  permit  another 
patient  to  be  sent  away. 

"  Good  morning,"  I  said  to  the  elderly  gentleman, 
and  waved  the  boy  aside. 

"  Are  you  Mr.  Barber? "  eagerly  asked  the 
elderly  gentleman. 

"  No,"  I  replied,  "  Mr.  Barber  has  been  suddenly 
called  to  the  Dental  Hospital  to  attend  a  very 
special  case  and  will  not  be  back  for  a  couple  of 
hours,  but  I  am  his  partner  and  can  attend  to  you. 
Walk  this  way,  please,"  and  I  ushered  him  into  the 
consulting  room,  and  pointed  to  the  velvet  chair, 
which  he  sat  in.  I  worked  the  plated  handles  of 
the  chair,  and  placed  a  towel  over  his  chest  in  the 
professional  manner  which  I  had  observed  Barber 
do  when  experimenting  on  me.  I  then  proceeded 
to  examine  his  mouth.  Even  the  uninitiated  could1 
see  it  was  a  good  case,  and  not  to  be  missed  on  any 
account.  I  took  up  the  first  tool  handy  and  touched 
his  gums.  "  Does  that  hurt?  "  I  said.  The  patient 
groaned  out  that  it  did.  I  smiled  as  if  I  had  made 
52 


82   GOWER   STREET 

a  great  discovery.  "  Thought  so,"  I  said.  "  Your 
gums  are  far  too  tender  at  the  present  time  to 
make  a  careful  inspection,  but  I  will  just  treat  them 
and  alleviate  the  pain  and  inflammation."  I  then 
opened  a  drawer  and  took  out  a  small  pair  of 
tweezers,  and  nipped  up  a  bit  of  wool,  which  I 
dipped  into  the  nearest  little  bottle.  I  had  to  chance 
this  part  of  the  business,  but,  as  luck  would  have  it, 
it  was  the  right  bottle.  I  then,  with  the  tweezers, 
passed  the  saturated  wool  across  his  gums,  and  again 
putting  on  the  professional  smile,  I  said,  "  That 's 
comforting,  is  n't  it?  " 

"  Oh,  most,"  was  the  reply.  "  Thank  you  very 
much,  it 's  wonderful." 

"  Now,"  I  said,  taking  up  Barber's  professional 
book,  and  scanning  the  blank  pages  with  a  per- 
plexed look,  apparently  trying  to  see  if  I  could 
possibly  fit  him  in  an  early  appointment.  "  Now," 
I  said,  "  if  you  will  please  come  at  —  er  —  1 1  —  no, 
that  won't  do —  12  —  er  —  no,  12.35,  Yes>  I2-35>  I 
can  manage  to  squeeze  you  in.  We  are  rather  full 
up  to-morrow,  but  at  12.35  Mr.  Barber  can  give 
you  every  attention." 

He  thanked  me  very  much,  and  was  most  grate- 
ful, and  I  bowed  him  out.  He  kept  his  appoint- 
ment, and  came  every  other  day  for  a  fortnight. 
There  were  half  a  dozen  stoppings  and  four  or 
five  new  teeth  to  put  in,  and  Barber  was  most 
obliged  to  me,  and  so  I  trust  was  the  patient. 

I  had  not  been  in  Gower  Street  many  weeks, 
when  I  painted  one  of  my  most  ambitious  pictures; 
it  was  a  six-foot  canvas  with  nearly  a  dozen  figures 
in  it.    It  was  called  "  Till  Daylight  Doth  Appear." 

53 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

It  was  of  the  period  of  George  IV,  a  gathering 
of  lively  bucks  round  the  polished  table,  smoking 
and  drinking;  the  host,  a  "  Corinthian  Tom,"  stand- 
ing up,  shouting  the  chorus  of  a  song,  accompanied 
at  a  spinet  by  a  typical  Bob  Logic.  My  brother 
sat  for  the  musician,  and  I  victimised  most  of  my 
friends  on  this  occasion.  My  father  sat,  also  Forbes 
Robertson,  Rutland  Barrington,  Perrin  Castle 
Smith,  and  others.  The  candles  were  flickering 
out,  and  the  cold  blue  daylight  was  streaming  in. 
It  involved  no  end  of  work,  and,  to  get  the  right 
daylight  effect,  for  five  weeks  I  got  up  at  daybreak, 
and  my  model,  Foster,  whom  I  have  already  alluded 
to,  sat  for  the  costumes,  hands,  and  figure,  arriving 
at  5.30,  rather  cold. 

The  disadvantage  of  early  rising  is  that  it  makes 
one  so  conceited;  when  I  heard  the  tramp  over 
the  pavement  of  people  going  to  their  offices  at 
9.30  and  10  o'clock,  it  seemed  positively  dreadful 
to  me,  for  I  had  already  done  four  hours'  work. 

I  sent  the  picture  to  the  Academy,  and  also  a 
picture  of  a  pretty  little  girl.  The  little  girl  was 
hung  on  the  line  and  sold  on  the  first  day  to  Mr. 
Muspratt  of  Seaforth  Hall,  Liverpool,  but  my  big 
ambitious  work,  which  I  had  slaved  at  for  over  six 
months,  was  rejected.  I  was  fearfully  upset.  My 
dear  mother  cried,  and  commenced  a  tirade  against 
the  Royal  Academicians,  the  Hanging  Commit- 
tee especially.  After  declaring  them  all  to  be 
11  brutes,"  and  "  unjust  and  unfair,"  she  said,  "  Oh, 
how  I  wish  I  were  an  Academician!"  "  I  would 
hang  all  my  son's  pictures  on  the  line.™ 

This  particular  picture  was  afterwards  hung  at 
54 


82    GOWER   STREET 

the  Suffolk  Street  Exhibition,  and  I  eventually  sold 
it  to  a  provincial  dealer  for  much  less  than  half 
what  it  cost  me  to  paint.  This  disappointment 
vanished  into  nothingness  at  the  time  of  the  terrible 
blow  I  sustained  shortly  afterwards.  My  dear 
father,  while  making  a  speech  as  Chairman  at  the 
House  Dinner  of  the  Savage  Club,  fell  dead  of 
apoplexy.  I  was  facing  him  on  the  other  side  of 
the  table.  And,  about  a  year  afterwards,  my  dear 
mother  passed  quietly  away  after  much  suffering, 
but  I  am  not  going,  in  this  book,  to  dwell  on  the 
sad  side  of  life. 

I  worked  very  hard  and  painted  several  portraits, 
among  others  the  daughters  of  the  late  Sir  John 
Puleston,  Mrs.  O'Hagan  and  her  little  daughter, 
a  life-size  portrait  of  the  daughter  of  Sir  Philip 
Waterlow,  which  was  hung  at  the  Grosvenor,  and 
several  others.  I  also  painted  a  large  picture  called 
"  Bread  and  Butter  Days,"  hung  at  the  R.  A.,  and 
purchased  by  the  late  Thomas  O'Hagan.  I  was 
very  busy,  and,  to  my  great  annoyance,  was  fre- 
quently interrupted  by  people  calling  with  samples 
of  paints,  etc. 

On  one  occasion  a  man  sent  up  the  name  of 
Brown,  and  said  he  wished  to  see  me  on  business. 
A  lady  was  sitting  for  a  portrait,  and  I  had  to  put 
down  my  brushes  to  see  this  intruder,  who  was 
shown  into  the  drawing-room.  He  had  called  about 
a  patent  palette  knife  he  wished  to  sell.  I  was 
naturally  annoyed,  and  wishing  him  good  morning, 
resumed  my  painting. 

About  a  month  later  I  was  interrupted  in  the 
middle  of  a  sitting,  by  the  servant  telling  me  that 

55 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

Mr.  Brown  wanted  to  see  me  for  a  moment  on 
business.    I  replied,  "Out!!" 

Next  day  the  same  interruption  occurred. 
"  Might  Mr.  Brown  see  Mr.  Grossmith  for  two 
minutes?  " 

"  No,  he  might  not,"  I  said.  "  Tell  him  I  'm  at 
home,  but  too  busy  to  see  anyone\ " 

A  few  days  later  a  sitter  had  just  left  when  the 
girl  said,  "Oh,  sir,  do  please  see  Mr.  Brown;  he 
wants  to  see  you  so  badly." 

"  Mr.  Brown  be  d d.     Stop,  yes,  I  will  see 

Mr.  Brown,"  I  said,  feeling  like  a  panther  ready  to 
spring  on  him.  "  Show  Mr.  Brown  into  the  draw- 
ing-room and  he  '11  be  done  Brown  in  a  minute." 
He  was  shown  up,  and  I  rushed  in,  ready  to  cut  his 
throat  with  one  of  his  own  palette  knives. 

"  Now  then,  what  the  D ,"  but  it  was  n't  the 

same  Brown,  not  the  palette  knife  Brown. 

"  I  really  must  apologise,  Mr.  Grossmith,"  said 
Mr.  Brown,  thrusting  out  a  card  with  a  trembling 
hand.  "  You  are  so  difficult  to  see,  but  I  don't 
want  to  go  back  without  acquiring  some  of  your 
work." 

It  was  a  famous  picture  dealer  from  the  North 
of  England.  I  controlled  myself  as  well  as  I  could, 
and  did  n't  give  myself  away.  "  Yes,  yes!  I  knew 
who  you  were,  but  I  've  been  so  busy." 

"  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Brown;  "  if  you  were  n't  a 
busy  man  I  shouldn't  want  to  deal  with  you!" 
He  looked  round  the  studio  and  bought  everything 
I  had.  Some  were  sketches  and  small  pictures,  for 
small  prices,  but  he  positively  bought  the  lot!! 

Later  on  there  were,  of  course,  the  usual  ups  and 

56 


82    GOWER   STREET 

downs,  and  things  just  then  were  not  too  rosy  with 
me.  I  had  painted  a  pretty  picture  which  was 
hung  at  the  Academy,  but  the  private  view  passed 
without  its  selling,  so  did  the  first  few  days,  and 
things  were  looking  rather  bad.  I  was  behind  with 
the  rent  and  had  been  spending  a  little  too  much  on 
old  furniture  and  other  hobbies  —  always  a  craze 
of  mine,  long,  long  before  it  was  a  fashionable 
craze  —  when  late  one  afternoon  a  letter  arrived 
from  a  Provincial  Picture  Dealer  making  an  offer 
of  a  third  of  the  catalogue  price  for  the  picture  in 
the  Academy,  accompanied  by  a  cheque  for  the 
amount  mentioned,  dated  a  few  days  ahead,  also 
a  reply-paid  telegram  addressed  to  himself.  The 
letter  said,  "  You  must  reply  during  the  evening 
1  Yes '  or  '  No.'  If  '  No,'  I  shall  buy  another  pic- 
ture also  under  offer,  which  I  like  as  well  as 
yours." 

I  thought  the  matter  over  seriously,  and  came  to 
the  conclusion  that,  under  the  circumstances,  I  had 
better  say  "  Yes."  "  The  bird  in  the  hand,"  etc., 
and  I  might  not  sell  at  all.  While  I  was  turning 
this  over  in  my  mind,  there  was  a  loud  knock  at  the 
door,  and  the  next  minute  my  friend  Claude  Hayes 
came  running  up  the  stairs  two  at  a  time. 

"  Come  on,"  he  said,  "  sling  on  your  dress  clothes. 
I  want  you  to  be  my  guest  to-night  at  the  Football 
Club  Annual  Dinner  at  the  Holborn  Restaurant. 
Herbert  Lyndon,  Sullivan,  and  the  whole  gang 
will  be  there." 

"  It  does  sound  jolly,"  I  said,  "  but  how  about 
time?" 

"  You  can  dress  in  ten  minutes,  can't  you?  " 

57 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

"  I  '11  try,"  I  said,  "  while  you  have  a  cigarette 
and  admire  my  pictures." 

In  ten  minutes  I  was  with  him  in  a  cab,  bowling 
along  to  the  Holborn  Restaurant. 

The  dinner  was  very  jolly,  very  noisy  and  rowdy. 
Plenty  of  wine,  a  little  too  much  rough  play  occa- 
sionally, especially  when  the  diners  commenced 
to  bombard  each  other  with  oranges;  one  taking 
me  across  the  bridge  of  the  nose  made  me  blink 
a  bit.  Roars  of  laughter  as  a  big  chap  stood  on  a 
chair  and  announced  that  it  was  "  time  to  fall  in  " 
and  "  prepare  for  the  march." 

"What's  going  to  happen?"  I  said  to  a  chap 
next  to  me. 

He  replied,  in  a  husky  voice,  that  they  were 
going  to  march  to  the  Oxford  Music  Hall,  clear 
out  the  people  and  pull  the  chaps  off  the  stage  if 
they  did  n't  like  'em.  He  said,  "  We  're  as  safe  as 
houses.  There  will  be  a  hundred  men,  at  least, 
from  Guy's  and  Thomas's  in  case  we  want  help." 

I  said  it  sounded  all  right,  but  if  he  would  excuse 
me,  I  would  rather  not  go. 

"  That 's  nonsense,"  he  replied,  "  don't  you  try  to 
shirk  or  they'll  guy  you,  see!" 

I  saw  it  looked  dangerous,  so  I  consented,  and  we 
marched  along  Holborn  and  arrived  at  the  Oxford 
Music  Hall  in  a  very  short  time.  I  did  n't  care  to 
go  with  the  majority  into  the  body  of  the  hall,  where 
they  expected  to  be  busy,  so  contented  myself  by 
going  into  the  balcony,  where  I  eagerly  watched  the 
proceedings.  There  were  several  small  interrup- 
tions, but  nothing  of  any  importance  until  the  big 
chap  stood  on  a  chair  and  snouted,  "  Do  you  like 
58 


82   GOWER   STREET 

the  performance?  "  which  was  responded  to  by  loud 
shouts  of  "Nol"  accompanied  also  by  shouts  of 
"  Shame!  "  "  Sit  down!  "  "  Turn  him  out!  "  from 
the  respectable  members  of  the  audience,  and  the 
attendants  made  a  rush  for  him,  but  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  solid  phalanx  of  supporters.  Once 
again  he  bellowed,  "  Do  you  like  the  performance?  " 
and  they  all  shouted,  "No!"  "  No  more  do  I," 
he  shouted  back,  "  and  we  're  going  to  put  out  every 
man  who  does!"  It  was  pandemonium  let  loose. 
The  footballers  fought  not  only  with  the  audience 
and  attendants  but  among  themselves,  while  the 
medicals  went  raging  and  tearing  down  the  stairs 
on  the  call  of  "Any  Guys  here?  Any  Barts?  " 
I  confess  I  was  so  carried  away  by  the  scene  that 
I  admit  I  waved  my  stick  and  shouted,  "  Hooray! 
Hooray!  "  Perhaps  I  should  n't  have  done  it,  but 
I  did  n't  think  I  was  doing  any  harm.  Immediately 
I  was  seized  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  by  one  of  the 
"  Turn  'em  outs."  I  never  went  downstairs  so 
quickly  before  or  since.  I  was  carried  off  my  feet, 
and  when  I  came  to  a  clear  consciousness  of  things, 
I  was  lying  on  the  pavement  of  Oxford  Street,  ask- 
ing for  an  explanation.  There  was  another  big  rush, 
and  out  flew  a  good  thirty  or  forty  of  my  football 
friends,  and  some  "  medicals,"  who,  while  they  were 
endeavouring  to  turn  out  the  audience,  got  turned 
out  themselves.  It  occurred  to  me  that  while  they 
were  arguing,  rowing,  and  still  fighting,  this  was  a 
favourable  time  to  give  them  the  slip  and  get  home, 
which  I  did,  and  with  a  creditable  amount  of  ac- 
curacy fitted  the  latchkey  in  the  lock  and  entered 
my  hall.    I  suddenly  remembered  that  in  the  pleas- 

59 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

ure  and  excitement  of  the  evening  I  had  forgotten 
to  send  the  telegram  to  the  picture  dealer  accepting 
his  offer  of  forty-five  pounds.  I  sat  down,  overcome 
by  remorse  and  depression.  I  had  thrown  away 
forty-five  pounds,  and  with  several  bills  waiting 
to  be  paid.  I  took  up  from  the  hall  table  a  long- 
shaped  envelope.  "  Another  bill,"  I  muttered,  and 
tore  it  open  to  discover,  to  my  great  delight,  a  letter 
from  the  Secretary  of  the  Academy  informing  me 
that  my  picture  No.  505  in  the  catalogue  had  been 
sold  that  morning  for  the  full  price  of  £150.  Now, 
had  I  attended  to  my  business  and  not  gone  to  that 
dinner,  I  should  have  sold  the  picture  to  the  dealer 
for  £45,  therefore  he  would  have  made  over  a 
hundred  pounds'  profit,  and  I  only  forty-five, 
whereas,  by  neglecting  my  business,  I  received  an 
extra  hundred  pounds!    An  immoral  moral! 

The  next  day  I  mentioned  my  good  luck  to  a 
friend,  and  he  promptly  borrowed  a  sovereign  from 
me.  A  few  weeks  afterwards  he  looked  me  up 
again,  and  said  he  would  pay  me  the  sovereign 
that  evening,  and  would  I  come  with  him  to  the 
Sadlers  Wells  Theatre,  as  he  had  tickets  rand 
he  would  take  me.  We  went  to  the  "  Wells  "  and 
presented  the  tickets;  they  were  not  numbered,  and 
the  manager  said  the  dress  circle  was  full,  but  by 
paying  a  shilling  each  he  would  oblige  us  by  passing 
us  into  the  stalls.  I  heard  after  that  these  tickets 
were  given  away  in  thousands. 

I  paid  two  shillings  and  passed  to  the  stalls,  but 
before  entering  the  stalls  we  had  to  give  up  our 
hats  and  sticks,  no  one  was  allowed  to  enter  with 
them,  and  a  charge  of  sixpence  each  was  demanded. 
60 


82   GOWER   STREET 

I  paid  a  shilling  for  this,  and  we  were  shown  into 
two  seats  behind  a  pillar  where  we  could  n't  see 
the  stage,  the  place  was  crowded  with  the  most 
awful  congregation  of  the  lowest  set  of  men  and 
women  I  had  ever  seen.  So  I  went  back  to  the  Box 
Office  and  told  the  Manager  that  I  was  a  brother 
of  the  well-known  actor,  George  Grossmith  at  the 
Savoy,  and  showed  him  my  card.  He  said,  "Though 
I  don't  know  you,  I  am  prepared  to  accept  your 
word  of  honour  that  you  are  speaking  the  truth 
and  will  let  you  have  a  private  box  on  condition 
that  you  pay  a  shilling  each."  So  I  forked  out 
two  more  shillings,  and  we  both  jauntily  walked 
to  the  box;  the  girl  attendant  showed  us  in,  charging 
us  sixpence  for  a  programme.  I  had  now  paid 
altogether  five  shillings  and  sixpence,  but  we  settled 
down  in  the  box  and  were  prepared  for  a  pleasant 
evening,  when  presently  the  door  opened,  and  the 
girl  put  four  more  chairs  in  the  box. 

I  turned  round  and  said,  "  Thank  you,  we  don't 
want  any  more  chairs,  there  is  no  one  else  coming." 

"Oh,  isn't  there?"  she  said;  "you  don't  think 
you're  going  to  have  it  all  to  yourselves?"  and  in 
came  two  big,  burly  costermongers  and  two  women 
nursing  babies. 

I  need  hardly  say  we  left,  and  went  to  Sam 
Collins'  Music  Hall  on  Islington  Green,  where  we 
spent  the  remainder  of  the  evening  and  had  several 
drinks  —  of  sorts.  The  liquor  was  evidently  not  of 
the  finest  quality,  for  my  friend  suddenly  showed 
signs  that  he  had  had  sufficient.  We  walked  down 
the  Pentonville  Road,  when  my  friend  remembered 
that  he  had  n't  paid  me  the  sovereign  he  owed  me  — 

61 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

I  was  then  quite  convinced  he  had  taken  too  much — 
and  commenced  to  fumble  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  for 
the  coin,  but  seeing  some  gentlemen  of  the  "  Hooli- 
gan "  class  coming  along,  I  said,  "  Another  time." 

He  replied,  "  No  time  like  the  present,  I  may 
not  have  it  another  time."  Taking  the  sovereign 
out  of  his  pocket,  he  handed  it  to  me,  but  owing 
to  a  slight  lurch  forward  he  dropped  the  sovereign 
on  the  pavement,  and  then  commenced  to  look  for 
it. 

Seeing  the  Hooligans  were  close  on  us,  I  with 
presence  of  mind  said,  "  Don't  look,  or  they  '11  look 
too;  pretend  to  talk,"  and  I  pointed  to  the  beautiful 
moonlight,  and  the  fleeting  clouds  overhead.  One 
of  the  passing  roughs  suddenly  saw  the  sovereign 
and  pounced  on  it  and  picked  it  up. 

I  said,  "  Excuse  me,  that  belongs  to  me,  my  friend 
has  just  dropped  it." 

"  Funny,"  he  replied,  putting  the  coin  in  his 
pocket,  "  that  you  should  have  dropped  it  and  yet 
you  was  n't  looking  for  it.  Why  was  n't  you  looking 
for  it  if  it  belonged  to  you?  "  I  could  n't  tell  them 
the  reason. 

"  You  're  a  nice  lot,"  growled  one  of  them,  who 
had  a  bandage  tied  round  his  head  and  no  teeth. 
"  I  Ve  half  a  mind  to  give  you  something  to  think 
about.  It 's  blokes  like  you  that  want  to  rob  the 
poor." 

"  'Ere,  come  along,  Mike,"  said  the  others,  and 
off  they  went  with  the  sovereign,  which  should 
have  been  mine.  It  was  my  loss,  for  I  naturally 
could  n't  expect  my  friend  to  pay  me  again. 

62 


CHAPTER   VI 

Frank  Holl,  Royal  Academy  Students' 
Dinner,  and  Amateur  Theatricals 

SOON  after  this  time  I  took  the  chair  at  the 
big  annual  dinner  of  the  Royal  Academy 
Students  held  at  St.  James'  Hall,  and  most 
of  the  Academicians  were  present,  includ- 
ing the  President,  Sir  Frederick  Leighton,  who 
sat  on  my  right.  After  the  usual  speeches,  the 
healths  of  the  successful  prize  winners  were 
drunk  and  received  with  cheers,  and  each  one 
in  turn  had  to  respond.  Their  powers  of  oratory 
in  no  way  interfered  with  the  reputation  of  Cicero. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  feeble.  There  was 
one  exception,  this  one  the  winner  of  the  Medal 
for  sculpture.  He  had  evidently  prepared  and 
learned  his  speech,  which  he  threw  off  his  chest  in 
the  manner  of  the  Socialistic  spouter  in  Hyde  Park; 
he  terminated  it  in  the  following  manner:  "And 
now,  Mr.  Chairman,  my  Lord  (there  was  one 
present),  Mr.  President,  Royal  Academicians,  asso- 
ciates and  fellow  students,  let  me  conclude  my  very 
humble  oration  by  thanking  you  for  the  hearty 
manner  you  have  drunk  my  health,  and  the  able 
way  it  was  proposed  by  the  chairman,  and  let  me 
remind  you  all  present  that  my  humble  piece  of 
sculpture  that  has  gained  the  medal,  poor  thing 

63 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

as  it  may  be  (cries  of  "No!  No!"),  it  will 
anyway  live  long  after  everyone  here  present  to- 
night is  dead  and  rotten  in  their  graves!! " 

Frank  Holl,  the  great  painter,  was  one  of  the 
dearest  and  kindest  friends  I  ever  had.  He  never 
seemed  tired  of  giving  me  every  kind  of  encourage- 
ment in  the  Art,  and  would  assist  me  in  every 
way  possible,  as  far  as  instruction  was  concerned. 

He  was  very  fond  of  painting  tragic  subjects  and 
painted  several  pictures  of  funerals,  —  powerful 
and  pathetic  in  the  extreme.  When  he  became  a 
famous  portrait  painter,  George  Augustus  Sala, 
writing  in  the  Daily  Telegraph,  criticised  one  of 
his  portraits  which  had  a  dark  background,  as  "  a 
powerful  piece  of  work,"  "  but  funereal  in  treat- 
ment," and  reminiscent  of  "  Port  Wine  and  Cake 
on  the  sideboard." 

Holl  was  a  thoroughly  realistic  painter  and  never 
did  anything  from  imagination  (no  cooking  up  in 
the  studio  from  memory),  and  when  he  painted  a 
portrait  it  was  the  living  person,  not  flattered,  or 
worked  up  into  a  pretty  picture,  but  the  pure  un- 
varnished truth.  I  think  sometimes  he  gave  a  little 
offence  in  this  way.  One  of  his  victims,  —  as  he 
called  them,  —  an  old  gentleman  whom  he  painted 
(I  think,  for  the  Board  of  Trade),  was  ninety-five, 
and  when  asked  by  the  subscribers  what  he  thought 
of  his  portrait  he  replied,  "  It 's  very  good,  but  Holl 
makes  me  look  so  old"  Cousins,  the  celebrated 
Engraver,  whom  Holl  painted,  was  absolutely 
offended  with  him,  and  would  not  allow  his  portrait 
to  be  exhibited  anywhere.  My  remembrance  of  it 
was  that  it  was  simply  a  remarkable  likeness. 
64 


FRANK   HOLL 

I  used  to  go  to  Criccieth  in  Wales  (the  home  of 
Lloyd  George)  with  Frank  Holl  to  paint,  and 
delightful  times  they  were.  While  I  was  painting 
the  pot-boiler  class,  "  child  with  basket  sitting  on 
a  stile,"  Holl  was  depicting  a  tragedy  in  a  little 
dark  cottage,  with  poor  women  and  ragged  children 
for  sitters.  And  how  kind  he  was  to  them!  His 
short  visit  of  a  week  paid  for  their  living  for  the 
best  part  of  a  year. 

On  one  occasion  I  remember  there  was  a  terrific 
sea  on  as  we  were  walking  along  the  shore,  and  the 
sky  was  full  of  dark  clouds.  Holl,  I  noticed,  kept 
stopping  and  looking  out  to  sea.  I  said  I  should 
be  sorry  to  be  in  a  ship  on  that  sea.  "  Yes,"  said 
Holl,  still  staring  out  towards  the  horizon,  "  I 
should  awfully  like  to  paint  a  shipwreck,  a  large 
canvas." 

I  loved  the  idea  of  his  painting  big  picture  sub- 
jects, so  I  said,  "  What  a  splendid  ideal  Why  don't 
you  paint  a  shipwreck?  " 

"  I  could  n't,"  he  replied,  "  because  I  've  never 
seen  one." 

When  among  a  few  friends  I  used  sometimes  to 
give  imitations  of  different  schools  of  acting,  also 
an  imitation  of  the  typical  shouting  music-hall 
singer  of  the  time,  with  his  apologetic  speech  for 
not  obliging  again,  after  he  had  taken  three  calls. 
Those  were  the  days  when  the  "  Chairman  "  was  in 
vogue,  who  sat  in  front  of  a  table  with  his  back  to 
the  stage  and  a  looking-glass  in  front  of  him,  so 
that  he  could  see  the  "  Artiste  "  make  his  or  her  ap- 
pearance. He  generally  announced,  "  Your  old 
favourite,  Mr.  So  and  So,  will  oblige,"  and  when  he 

65 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

did  so,  he  started  the  applause  by  rapping  the  table 
vigorously  with  his  hammer.  He  used  to  reserve  a 
few  seats  round  his  table  for  "  the  gentry,"  and  it  was 
considered  an  honour  to  be  invited  there  by  him.  I 
have  had  that  honour  conferred  on  me,  and  a  waiter 
reminded  me  of  the  etiquette  to  ask  the  chairman 
if  he  would  take  a  drink.  I  never  knew  a  chairman 
refuse  one,  and  with  a  nod  of  the  head  to  the  waiter 
he  would  say,  "  Fred,  you  know,  the  usual."  The 
"  usual  "  consisted  generally  of  a  soda  and  lemon, 
the  price  of  which  was  a  shilling;  he  would  also, 
with  a  very  little  pressure,  accept  a  cigar,  another 
shilling  (wholesale  price,  five  for  a  shilling).  I 
am  bound  to  say  I  never  begrudged  the  cost,  for  his 
conversation  was  generally  amusing. 

My  dear  old  friends  Toole  and  Sir  Henry  Irving 
used  to  be  greatly  amused  with  my  Music  Hall 
imitations.  I  was  called  upon  frequently  to  give 
them,  and  no  one  seemed  to  enjoy  them  more  than 
the  First  gentleman  in  Europe,  before  whom  I  gave 
them  more  than  once.  I  was  asked  to  many  charm- 
ing little  supper  parties  at  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan's, 
when  I  was  generally  turned  on  to  do  something, 
sometimes  with  my  brother  George,  and  sometimes 
Rutland  Barrington  was  included.  There  were 
usually  some  members  of  the  Royal  Family 
present,  who  appeared  highly  to  appreciate  the 
impromptu  performance,  and  after  one  of  these 
occasions  the  late  Mr.  D'Oyly  Carte  came  to  me 
and  said,  "  Weedon,  seriously,  if  ever  Art  should 
fail,  which  I  hope  it  won't,  come  to  me  and  I  will 
give  you  an  engagement  on  the  stage  at  once." 

I  thanked  him,  but  told  him  I  had  no  intention 
66 


AMATEUR   THEATRICALS 

of  ever  going  on  the  stage,  but  I  would  not  forget 
his  kind  offer  if  I  should  alter  my  mind. 

There  seemed  to  be  a  run  on  my  imitations,  and 
I  was  asked  out  a  good  deal,  ostensibly  for  the 
pleasure  afforded  by  my  society,  but  in  reality  for 
the  purpose  of  "  doing  something,"  and  as  I  always 
enjoyed  these  evenings,  I  have  no  complaint  to 
make. 

Generally  in  the  autumn  I  used  to  spend  a 
delightful  fortnight  with  Walter  Webb  at  Mal- 
quoits,  Ewhurst,  Surrey.  Here  Sir  William 
Magnay  and  I  used  to  get  up  amateur  performances. 
Delightful  times  they  were,  too.  Among  the  mem- 
bers of  our  Dramatic  Company  were  the  daughters 
of  the  late  Sir  John  and  Lady  Puleston,  Miss 
Wyndham  (now  Mrs.  Spencer  Bower)  and  Mrs. 
O'Hagan,  who  is  a  well  known  amateur  actress! 
Her  husband  played  a  small  part,  but  he  was 
so  bad  in  it  that  Magnay  and  I  had  to  give  him  the 
sack  at  once,  and  I  don't  think  he  ever  tried  to  act 
again.  Kincaid,  the  eminent  engineer,  was  equally 
bad,  and  George  Spencer  Bower,  K.  C,  was  worse, 
if  that  were  possible. 

In  a  drama  we  were  producing,  Kincaid,  who, 
thank  goodness,  only  played  in  the  prologue,  was 
the  defaulting  banker,  and  when  the  head  clerk,  the 
villain  of  the  play,  —  played  by  Sir  William  Mag- 
nay,—  had  to  call  him  a  thief  and  a  liar,  Kincaid 
had  to  writhe  under  the  insinuations,  and  show  by 
the  expression  of  his  face  the  agony  of  mind  he  was 
suffering.  Not  a  bit  of  it;  he  faced  the  audience 
sitting  at  a  table  with  a  quiet  and  placid  smile.  I 
was    directing    from    the    front.      "  Kincaid,"    I 

67 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

shouted,  "  for  goodness'  sake,  show  agony  and  de- 
spair in  your  face." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Kincaid,  "  I  think  you  '11  find  it 
will  be  all  right  when  I  get  some  papers  and  pens 
on  the  table." 

He  was  discharged,  and  Henry  Warburton,  the 
Barrister,  put  in  his  place.  We  had  plenty  of  fun 
over  this.  Miss  Minnie  Wyndham  and  Miss  Bessie 
Hollingshead  were  also  in  these  performances. 
The  rehearsals  generally  took  place  after  dinner, 
as  we  were  shooting  in  the  daytime  or  playing  tennis. 

Frank  Holl,  who  had  built  a  beautiful  house  in 
the  neighbourhood,  kindly  volunteered  to  paint 
some  scenery,  and  I  was  his  assistant.  Walter  Webb 
had  in  the  farmyard  a  large  old  barn,  which  was 
converted  into  a  theatre.  These  entertainments 
were  got  up  for  the  amusement  of  the  tenants  on 
the  estate,  who,  I  must  say,  formed  a  highly  appre- 
ciative audience.  I  remember  on  one  occasion  the 
laughter  was  so  great  when  I  was  on  the  stage  that 
I  became  greatly  embarrassed,  as  I  could  scarcely 
account  for  it.  I  had  never  heard  more  laughter 
in  a  theatre,  and  I  could  n't  help  thinking  to  myself 
if  I  ever  went  on  the  stage  and  caused  such  roars 
how  successful  I  should  be.  The  laughter  became 
so  great  that  at  last  Mr.  Webb  rose  in  the  audience 
and  addressed  them.  He  said,  "  I  know  how  diffi- 
cult it  is  to  restrain  our  mirth  when  Mr.  Grossmith 
is  on  the  stage,  but  if  we  don't  check  our  laughter 
the  performance  won't  be  over  till  midnight." 

A  burly  farmer  rose  from  his  seat  and  replied, 
"  Excuse  me,  Muster  Webb,  it  bain't  Mr.  Gross- 
mith we  be  laughing  at,  but  some  one  have  left  the 
68 


"WISHES   AND    FISHES 

From  life-size  painting  by  Wee  Jon  Crossmith,  exhibited  at  tlie  Royal  Academy,  iSSt 


AMATEUR   THEATRICALS 

barn  door  open  at  the  back,  and  all  the  pigs  have 
got  in,  and  they  be  almost  a  pushing  of  us  off  our 
seats." 

Then,  under  the  direction  of  our  host,  the  whole 
audience  rose  and  chivied  the  pigs  out.  But  it  sadly 
stopped  the  action  of  the  play,  and  the  laughter 
was  certainly  not  so  excessive. 

These  performances  were  all  most  enjoyable,  to 
the  actors  at  any  rate,  and  frequently  led  to  business 
for  me,  for  my  work  was  often  instrumental  in  my 
getting  a  commission  for  a  picture.  At  this  time 
I  used  to  go  frequently  to  my  dear  old  friend,  the 
late  Sir  John  Henry  Johnson,  at  St.  Osyth  Priory, 
where  "  between  the  shots "  I  also  did  a  little 
amateur  acting. 

I  remember  a  fete  they  got  up  in  the  beautiful 
Park  at  St.  Osyth  for  the  restoration  and  heating  of 
the  village  church,  which  needed  it  badly.  Oh, 
the  coldness  of  that  church  in  the  winter!  No 
wonder  so  many  of  Sir  John's  guests  had  a  headache 
or  were  otherwise  indisposed  on  Sunday  morning; 
any  kind  of  excuse  rather  than  face  that  cold  pew, 
which  had  an  oil  stove  giving  out  about  as  much 
heat  as  an  ordinary  night  light. 

The  fete  was  a  great  success,  and  Sir  John  and 
myself  did  a  little  sketch  in  the  Banqueting  hall  of 
the  Priory.  The  sketch  was  an  impromptu  of  mine, 
descriptive  of  a  visit  to  a  dentist,  which  I  have  often 
done  with  brother  George,  who  played  the  nervous 
patient  in  his  best  style.  On  this  occasion  Sir  John 
played  the  patient,  and  we  rehearsed  it  carefully; 
and  when  we  played  it  before  a  crowded  audience, 
consisting  of  the  tenants  and  neighbours,  it  was  a 

69 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

very  great  success.  The  climax  is  reached  when 
the  dentist,  after  severe  tugging,  extracts  the  tooth 
from  the  jaws  of  the  terrified  patient,  who  has 
rolled  on  the  floor  in  agony. 

When  we  reached  the  final  situation,  Sir  John 
was  beyond  control ;  he  was  so  carried  away  by  the 
laughter  that  his  performance  had  occasioned  that 
the  great  charm  of  acting,  the  concealment  of  the 
Art,  he  had  thrown  to  the  winds,  and  was  indulging 
in  the  most  exaggerated  style  of  a  fit  up  "  comic 
relief."  He  was  making  a  conglomeration  of 
noises,  resembling  the  braying  of  a  jackass,  the 
bleating  of  sheep,  and  the  roaring  of  a  bull.  This 
row  made  the  small  boys  in  the  audience  literally 
scream  with  laughter,  and  encouraged  my  host  to 
go  beyond  all  limits. 

I  was  leaning  over  him  with  my  back  to  the 
audience,  so  took  the  opportunity  unobserved  of 
giving  him  a  polite  tip  that  this  was  the  time  to 
finish.  "That'll  do.  Very  good!  It's  the  end  I 
It's  all  over." 

"  No,  no!  Not  yet,"  said  Sir  John.  "  They  're 
still  laughing,"  and  he  continued  bleating  and  bray- 
ing, and  varied  it  with  an  imitation  of  a  dog  and 
cat  fighting.  This  renewed  the  laughter.  He  was 
clutching  me  by  the  arms,  so  that  I  could  n't  free 
myself  from  him. 

"Let  go,"  I  said,  "it's  over!" 

"  Not  yet,  they  're  still  laughing." 

"  Dash  it,"  I  hissed  out,  forgetting  myself  for  a 
moment,  "  shut  up,"  and  I  at  last  succeeded  in 
wriggling  myself  away  from  him,  leaving  him  lying 
on  his  back,  braying  and  kicking  his  legs  in  the  air. 
70 


"the  new  lord  of  the  manor 

From  the  painting  by  H'eedon  Grossmith.     Exhibited  at  the  Institute,  1884 
(The  figure  is  life  size) 


MOVING 

Finding  he  was  alone,  he  got  up,  thoroughly 
satisfied  with  his  performance,  and  took  two  or  three 
calls.  He  afterwards  asked  me  why  I  walked  away. 
I  told  him  that  frankly  I  thought  there  was  a  limit 
to  exaggeration,  a  limit  which  in  my  opinion  he 
had  far  exceeded. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  my  dear  Weedon,"  he  answered. 
"  You  don't  know  them  down  here  as  I  do,  they  're 
not  so  fastidious  as  your  London  stalls,  we  could 
have  continued  for  another  five  minutes,"  and  I 
honestly  think  he  was  right.  He  knew  his  audi- 
ence better  than  I  did. 

At  this  period  my  ground-floor  companion  at 
Gower  Street,  Hugh  Barber,  the  dentist,  finding 
the  patients  not  coming  in  as  quickly  as  he  had 
anticipated,  with  my  consent  sold  the  remainder 
of  the  lease  to  a  very  nice  lady,  Miss  Osier,  who 
practically  took  over  Barber  and  myself  with  the 
house,  and  we  became  her  tenants.  Later  on  she 
saw  a  house  in  the  same  street  which  she  liked  better, 
and  we  consented  to  go  with  her  when  she  moved. 
The  rooms  were  larger,  but  there  was  a  drawback 
in  the  shape  of  a  big  tree,  which  being  close  to  the 
window  obscured  the  light  of  the  back  room. 
The  landlord,  a  bootmaker  in  the  neighbourhood, 
who  owned  the  lease,  said  he  thought  that  difficulty 
could  be  obviated,  and  mysteriously  hinted  to  me 
as  a  dark  secret  that  "  something  "  inserted  in  the 
root  would  kill  the  tree.  "  I  don't  want  to  kill  it," 
I  said,  "  it  only  wants  lopping  at  the  top ;  will  you 
lop  it?  " 

11 1  dare  n't,"  he  said,  "  I  dare  n't.  You  forget 
I  own  the  lease,  you  must  n't  speak  of  such  things 

7i 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

on  the  Bedford  Estate,  but  if  you  lop,  six  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  before  anyone  is  about,  is  the  best 
time.  You  '11  want  a  double  ladder,  Clark  has  got 
one  in  Torrington  Mews,  and  if  you  saw  him,  he 
could  do  it!  But  I  don't  know  anything  about  it 
and  would  n't  sanction  it  under  any  circumstances, 
you  quite  understand." 

"  Quite,"  I  said.  I  was  preparing  to  move  in 
all  my  furniture  in  two  or  three  days'  time  and 
wanted  the  lopping  done  before  I  got  there.  I  saw 
the  sportsman  with  the  double  ladder  in  Torrington 
Mews,  and  told  him  what  I  wanted  done,  and  he 
agreed  to  carry  it  out  the  following  morning.  The 
next  day  it  was  n't  done,  and  he  called  on  me  very 
much  concerned,  and  asked  me  if  I  had  permission 
from  the  Bedford  Office. 

This  was  rather  an  awkward  question,  but  I 
evaded  it  by  saying,  "  Do  you  suppose  I  should  do 
such  a  thing  without  permission?" 

He  replied,  "  No,  I  did  n't  think  you  would,  sir." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  I  replied,  "  fire  away,  get  the 
lopping  over  early  to-morrow  morning,  as  I  am 
moving  in  at  nine  o'clock." 

He  came  back  again  in  the  evening,  looking  very 
troubled  and  rather  intoxicated,  and  said,  if  it  were 
possible,  he  would  like  to  see  the  permission  from 
the  Bedford  Office.  I  said,  "  I  have  n't  got  it," 
which  was  perfectly  true,  and  referred  him  to  the 
Bootmaker  who  held  the  lease,  knowing  that  gentle- 
man had  just  left  London  for  a  week's  holiday  at 
Yarmouth. 

He  eventually  left,  after  having  some  difficulty 
with  the  umbrella  stand,  which  seemed  in  his  way, 
72 


FRANK   HOLL 

and  promising  to  be  at  the  other  house  at  six  o'clock 
the  next  morning  —  it  was  summer. 

Next  day  the  Pantechnicon  vans  were  outside 
at  eight  o'clock,  and  my  carpets  and  furniture  were 
being  taken  in  to  the  new  house.  At  eleven  o'clock 
I  went  round  expecting  to  see  the  top  of  the  tree 
lopped  off,  but  it  had  not  yet  gone;  there  were  half 
a  dozen  men  with  pulling  ropes,  they  had  already 
cut  the  tree,  but  it  wanted  more  sawing,  and  two 
men  were  going  up  the  ladder  to  finish  it  off.  The 
long  branch  was  already  on  the  ground.  The  excite- 
ment was  intense,  and  I  felt  I  could  n't  watch  it 
any  longer,  it  got  on  my  nerves,  so  I  went  for  a 
walk  and  returning  again  at  half-past  one,  found  the 
work  suspended  and  great  excitement  among  the 
men  in  the  garden. 

Unfortunately  the  proceedings  had  been  witnessed 
by  the  Architect  of  the  Bedford  Estate  —  Mr.  Fitz- 
roy  Doll  it  must  have  been  —  who  happened  to  be 
in  the  next  garden,  and  Clark,  my  man,  had  been 
taken  off  at  once  to  the  Bedford  Office. 

I  felt  a  bit  sick,  and  was  astonished,  on  getting 
back  to  No.  82,  to  find  a  policeman  waiting  for  me 
to  escort  me  to  the  Bedford  Office,  where  I  was 
confronted  by  Mr.  Stutfield,  the  Duke  of  Bedford's 
steward.  I  was  highly  censured.  Clark  was  cry- 
ing, and  kept  declaring  he  was  a  ruined  man.  But 
I  assured  them  he  was  entirely  innocent.  If  anyone 
was  to  blame,  it  was  myself.  My  only  excuse  was 
that  I  was  unaware  it  was  a  criminal  proceeding 
to  lop  a  few  leaves  off  a  tree  in  your  own  garden. 
And  I  assured  them  for  the  future  I  should  be  very 
careful  before   I   picked   a   leaf  on   the   Bedford 

73 


MOVING 

Estate,  as  I  had  little  inclination  to  endure  the 
monotony  of  a  lengthened  term  of  penal  servitude. 
These  last  remarks  of  mine  did  n't  improve  matters, 
for  Mr.  Stutfield  decided  we  were  not  to  enter  the 
house  and  declined  to  let  Miss  Osier  have  the 
remainder  of  the  lease.  I  returned  to  the  lopping 
ground.  The  furniture  movers  were  mopping  their 
foreheads,  apparently  exhausted  with  their  day's 
work.    "  Have  you  quite  finished?  "    I  said. 

"  Yes,  sir,  quite  finished ;  we  've  moved  everything 
in  and  put  up  the  looking-glasses  and  the  brackets; 
all 's  in  order,  sir." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  I  replied ;  "  you  can 
now  take  'em  down  and  move  everything  back  to 
No.  82.  Miss  Osier,"  I  said,  "  has  altered  her 
mind,  she  is  not  taking  the  house." 

They  moved  everything  back  and  finished  at  ten 
o'clock  at  night.  I  was  n't  sorry,  and  I  don't  think 
any  of  us  were.  We  all  had  a  very  great  liking  for 
the  old  house. 

Since  those  days  I  have  become  better  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Stutfield,  who  has  shown  me  many  cour- 
tesies in  very  many  ways.  As  for  the  tree-cutting 
episode,  he  was  exceedingly  lenient.  My  friend, 
Mr.  Edward  Ledger,  lopped  a  tree  in  Regent's  Park 
which  obscured  his  view,  and  was  marched  off  by 
a  policeman  to  the  police  station,  where  he  had  to 
remain  until  he  found  bail. 

I  believe  in  certain  houses  being  lucky  to  one  and 
certain  other  houses  the  reverse.  No.  82  was  very 
lucky  as  far  as  my  work  was  concerned,  and  the 
last  year  I  spent  there  I  must  have  made  over  six 
hundred  pounds  by  painting.  And  the  portrait  I 
74 


FRANK   HOLL 

painted  of  Sir  Philip  Waterlow's  daughter,  which 
was  hung  at  the  Grosvenor  Gallery,  brought  me  in 
several  good  commissions  for  portraits  of  children, 
and  it  was  on  the  strength  of  these  commissions 
that  I  decided  to  make  rather  a  bold  move  and  go 
into  a  more  fashionable  district.  So,  in  answer  to 
advertisements  I  put  in  the  newspapers,  I  found 
the  ideal  house  I  wanted,  and  I  rented  from  Mr. 
Murray  Davis,  the  dentist  (another  dentist),  the 
entire  upper  part  and  basement  of  his  house,  No. 
65  Harley  Street. 


75 


CHAPTER   VII 

Sixty-five  Harley  Street.  Debts  and 
Difficulties 

SIXTY-FIVE  Harley  Street  was  a  double 
house  with  two  staircases  and  a  fine  studio 
built  out,  which  ran  down  the  side  of 
New  Cavendish  Street,  —  rebuilt  in  1910, 
—  with  a  side  light  eighteen  feet  high,  which 
was  built  and  occupied  for  many  years  by  Ediss, 
the  portrait  painter.  You  may  imagine  I  had  to 
pay  a  very  high  rent  for  this  luxurious  abode,  but 
it  was  the  ideal  place  for  a  fashionable  portrait 
painter,  which  I  was  fondly  hoping  to  become.  So 
I  argued  with  myself  that  in  such  surroundings  I 
should  surely  get  more  commissions  and  could 
surely  ask  a  bigger  price  for  the  portraits,  and  this 
all  seemed  very  reasonable.  So,  after  a  little  decorat- 
ing, I  got  in  and  started  work,  but  I  soon  realised 
that  it  wanted  a  lot  of  money  to  keep  this  great 
place  up.  This  was  in  1883.  I  engaged  a  most 
excellent  housekeeper,  and  her  husband  as  a  butler 
and  general  factotum,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith,  who 
remained  with  me  for  about  fifteen  years  and  have 
retired  now  and  live  on  a  little  farm  of  their  own 
near  Frome,  and  have  called  their  cottage  after  my 
daughter  Nancy.  They  worked  things  very  eco- 
nomically, but  65  Harley  Street  wanted  a  lot  of 
76 


DEBTS   AND    DIFFICULTIES 

keeping  up,  and  very  little  was  coming  in.  A 
largish  picture  I  had  painted  of  a  dissipated  youth 
in  the  George  IV  period,  called  "  The  New  Lord 
of  the  Manor,"  was  on  exhibition  but  had  n't  sold. 
It  was  n't  pretty  enough,  I  suppose.  Another  large 
picture,  called  "  Such  is  Life,"  of  a  beautiful  little 
child  looking  into  an  empty  bonbon,  was  hung 
on  the  line,  and  attracted  a  lot  of  attention,  but 
did  n't  sell  either,  though  I  painted  a  replica  of  it 
for  the  Christmas  number  of  the  Graphic.  During 
the  previous  year  I  had  painted  a  picture  as  a  com- 
mission from  Walter  Weblyn  for  the  Christmas 
number  of  the  Sporting  and  Dramatic  News. 

I  am  sorry  to  say  No.  65  was  an  unlucky  house 
to  me.  The  tide  of  bad  luck  set  in  with  a  vengeance. 
The  pictures  were  not  selling  and  my  commissions 
for  portraits  fell  through,  one  after  the  other.  One 
man,  a  wealthy  brewer,  who  had  commissioned  me 
to  paint  his  three  children,  backed  out  on  learning 
that  I  could  n't  guarantee  that  the  picture  would  be 
hung  at  the  Academy.  Of  course,  not  being  an 
Academician,  I  could  n't  insure  its  being  accepted, 
and  told  him  so.  He  put  the  blame  on  his  wife  and 
assured  me  he  personally  did  n't  care  particularly 
for  publicity,  but  he  must  withdraw  the  commission 
if  I  could  n't  guarantee  it  being  hung  at  the  R.  A. 
I  replied  that  although  I  had  generally  been  hung 
at  the  Academy,  I  naturally  could  n't  guarantee  it. 
He  then  said  he  was  sorry,  and  asked  me  whom  he 
had  better  go  to?  I  replied,  "  You  apparently  want 
an  advertisement,  I  should  go  to  Willings! "  Two 
hundred  and  fifty  guineas  went  with  him! 

The  next  day  came  a  letter  from  a  gentleman 

77 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

postponing  the  first  sitting  his  wife  was  going  to 
give  me,  owing  to  ill-health,  she  having  been 
ordered  off  to  the  South  of  France  by  her  physician. 

That  was  the  next  important  commission  gone, 
and  during  the  following  three  months  two  more 
fell  through,  through  the  illness  of  children, 
(measles)  but  the  expenses  of  Harley  Street  still 
continued. 

I  had  a  bit  of  luck  in  letting  off  a  portion  of  the 
house  to  a  very  good  chap,  Richard  Light,  a  wealthy 
bachelor,  who,  poor  fellow,  caught  a  bad  chill 
while  hunting  and  died  a  few  days  afterwards  in 
his  mother's  house  at  Hampstead. 

My  experience  as  a  portrait  painter  has  con- 
vinced me  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  please.  I  am 
sure  this  is,  and  always  has  been,  the  stumbling 
block  of  other  portrait  painters. 

I  painted  several  middle-aged  spinsters  whose 
vanity  was  appalling.  I  would  paint  a  lady  of  fifty 
who  looked  sixty-five,  and  render  her  on  canvas  as 
a  smiling  young  woman  of  thirty,  and  would  then 
be  reminded  that  a  Mr.  So-and-So  had  said  her 
mouth  resembled  "  Cupid's  Bow,"  so  often  depicted 
in  the  Grecian  statues,  and  a  visit  to  the  Museum 
would  help  my  portrait. 

I  have  generally  found  that  plain  women  are  more 
vain  than  pretty  ones,  and  plain  men  too.  I  am 
told  that  if  you  are  impertinent  enough  to  kiss  a 
beautiful  woman  on  a  comparatively  slight  acquaint- 
ance, you  may  possibly,  and  very  probably,  get  a 
freezing  rebuff  that  will  teach  you  not  to  repeat 
such  a  liberty,  but  she  will  make  no  fuss,  you 
apologise,  it 's  over,  but  if  you  embrace  an  excep- 
78 


"such  is  life" 

rom  life-size  painting  by  II  'eedon  Grossvtith,  exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy,  1SS5 


DEBTS   AND   DIFFICULTIES 

tionally  unattractive  lady,  if  she  does  n't  scream  the 
house  down  or  call  for  the  servants,  she  will  refer 
you  to  her  solicitor  to  state  your  income  and  your 
intentions  —  you  probably  having  neither  —  and 
she  will  most  likely  never  forgive  you.  At  least, 
so  my  lawyer  says;  I  am,  of  course,  not  speaking 
from  experience.  In- portrait  painting,  the  beautiful 
women  swear  that  you  have  flattered  them.  Ye 
Gods!  If  you  could  only  paint  some  of  them  so  as 
to  appear  on  canvas  a  quarter  as  beautiful  as  they 
are  in  reality,  you  would  indeed  have  remarkable 
results.  But  the  plain  ones  grumble  and  growl  and 
criticise.  Again,  sitters  are  frequently  pleased  until 
their  friends  see  the  picture  hanging  on  their  walls. 
That,  of  course,  is  a  good  moment  to  pay  the  hostess 
a  compliment  at  the  poor  artist's  expense,  and  get 
another  invitation  to  dinner,  so  they  say,  "  It 's 
awfully  well  painted,  you  know,  the  dress  is  fine, 
the  roses  are  positively  wonderful,  but,  my  dear 
Lady  Triggs,  as  a  likeness,  well,  it 's  —  er  —  almost 
an  insult,  by  Jove,  it  is."  The  subject  looks  down 
at  her  plate,  smilingly  says,  "  You  know  you  are 
prejudiced  in  my  favour  —  but  —  er  —  anyway,  I 
suppose  I  shall  look  as  old  as  that  some  day." 
"  Never,  by  Jove,"  he  replies,  "  Never!  " 

I  painted  a  portrait  of  a  really  good-looking 
American  woman  of  about  fifty;  her  frank  manner 
of  speaking  pleased  me  immensely.  She  said  to  me 
one  day,  "  Mr.  Weedon  Grossmith,  you  must  knock 
out  those  lines  under  the  eyes  and  those  hollow 
shadows  in  the  cheeks,  I  don't  like  'em.  I  know 
I  've  got  'em,  but  I  did  n't  come  to  you  for  THAT. 
If  I  had  wanted  to  look  as  I  am,  I  should  have  had 

79 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

a  photograph  taken.  I  want  this  picture  to  look 
like  I  <was,  that 's  what  you  're  being  paid  for."  I 
pleased  her  beyond  her  highest  hopes.  Greuze 
and  Reynolds  were  n't  in  it.  By  the  time  I  'd 
finished  she  knew  I  was  humbugging  on  canvas, 
but  that  is  what  she  wanted,  and  she  had  the  sense 
to  say  so. 

I  had  a  curious  experience  with  one  lady  whose 
portrait  I  painted.  The  family  were  all  delighted 
with  the  result  and  were  full  of  praise,  and  com- 
pliments were  simply  thrown  at  me.  It  was  better 
than  Millais  could  ever  do,  and  was  less  than 
a  tenth  part  his  price,  —  so  they  said ! 

The  following  year  they  asked  me  to  dinner,  and 
a  jolly  good  dinner  it  was,  and  when  the  ladies  went 
into  the  drawing-room,  my  host  came  and  sat  next 
me  and  in  a  most  confidential  manner  said,  "  My 
dear  Mr.  Grossmith,  my  wife  was  rather  reluctant 
to  speak  to  you,  so  it  devolves  on  me  to  be  the 
spokesman.  You  know  how  delighted  we  all  are 
with  your  splendid  picture  —  charming  —  and  it's 
a  striking  likeness,  but  not  so  striking  as  it  was,  be- 
cause when  you  painted  my  wife  she  wore  a  fringe 
over  her  well-formed  forehead;  now,  thank  good- 
ness, that  kind  of  coiffure  has  gone  out  of  fashion, 
and  as  you  must  have  noticed  to-night  she  shows  her 
beautiful  forehead  again,  a  forehead  worthy  of  the 
artist's  brush.  Now,  it  occurred  to  us  that  if  she 
came  down  to  your  studio  and  brought  the  picture 
with  her  in  her  brougham,  you  might  with  a  few 
of  your  magic  touches  paint  out  the  fringe  and 
restore  the  forehead,  eh?" 

"  Delighted,"  I  said,  and  fixed  a  sitting  for  the 
80 


DEBTS   AND    DIFFICULTIES 

following  morning.  I  had  had  a  good  dinner  and 
could  n't  refuse. 

I  painted  out  the  fringe  and  worked  for  two  or 
three  hours  on  the  forehead  till  I  got  the  desired 
effect,  and  they  were  more  than  pleased,  and  wrote 
me  a  letter  of  appreciation. 

I  dined  at  their  hospitable  table  the  following 
year.  Excellent  dinner,  and  as  the  ladies  were 
retiring  the  hostess  said,  "  Don't  forget,  William, 
what  I  told  you." 

I  heard  him  remonstrating  with  her,  then  he 
settled  down  and  filled  up  my  glass  with  some  very 
good  port.  He  opened  up  conversation  by  saying 
the  portrait  looked  very  well.  I  agreed  with 
him,  but  he  said,  "  Of  course  it  is  n't  a  woman  of 
fashion,  no  woman  does  her  hair  like  that  now, 
it 's  old-fashioned." 

"  It  was  fashionable  when  I  painted  it,'*  I 
replied. 

"  True,  quite  true,"  he  said ;  "  everyone  admires 
the  portrait  tremendously,  but  the  simple  way  the 
ladies  wave  their  hair  over  the  foreheads  now  makes 
them  appear  to  a  much  greater  advantage.  My 
wife  said,  *  if  you  could  spare  a  few  moments  to 
make  a  slight  alteration  '  —  but  there, '  it  is  n't  fair,' 
I  said,  '  to  waste  any  more  of  Mr.  Grossmith's  time, 
and  anyway,  I  would  n't  ask  him,'  and  I  told  her 
I  most  certainly  should  n't  encroach  on  your  good 
nature  any  further."  He  then  handed  me  a  very 
good  cigar. 

After  a  pause  I  said,  "  Well,  I  shall  be  very 
pleased  to  have  another  shot  at  it,  but  it 's  very 
risky,  as  the  light  at  Harley  Street  is  very  different 

81 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

to  Gower  Street,  it 's  much  higher.  However,  I  '11 
do  my  best." 

She  came,  and  I  worked  for  four  hours  on  the 
forehead  and  had  to  have  another  sitting  of  two 
hours  the  following  day,  as  I  could  n't  complete  it 
in  the  one  sitting. 

The  husband  wrote  and  said  the  improvement 
was  colossal,  it  was  a  different  thing.  I  answered 
this  letter  telling  him  how  grateful  I  was  that  the 
portrait  was  at  last  satisfactory,  but  reminded  him, 
at  the  same  time,  that  if  in  the  future  the  exigencies 
of  fashion  demanded  any  further  alterations  the 
best  plan  would  be  to  allow  me  some  nominal  fee 
yearly  to  keep  the  portrait  up  to  date! 

Cholmondeley  Pennell,  whom  I  used  to  shoot  and 
fish  with,  introduced  me  to  Pritchard  Morgan,  who 
later  on  discovered  gold  in  Wales,  and  Pennell 
had  hinted  to  me  several  times  that  Morgan  wanted 
his  children  painted,  and  he  had  also  a  very  good 
collection  of  pictures. 

Things  were  getting  so  disastrous  with  me,  that 
at  one  time  I  was  nearly  giving  Morgan  a  hint  while 
driving  in  his  Tandem  round  the  Park,  but  the 
excitement  was  so  great  watching  the  horses  and 
wondering  what  extraordinary  equestrian  act  they 
would  perpetrate  next  that  I  postponed  my  inten- 
tion and  thought  I  had  better  leave  it  to  Pennell. 

One  fine  morning,  when  I  was  indulging  in  a 
brandy  and  soda  to  give  me  Dutch  courage  to  face 
three  gentlemen  who  were  sitting  in  the  hall,  de- 
claring they  would  not  leave  until  they  were  paid, 
a  letter  arrived  from  Pritchard  Morgan  saying  he 
wanted  to  see  me  purely  on  a  matter  of  business, 
82 


DEBTS   AND    DIFFICULTIES 

and  when  would  it  be  convenient  for  him  to  pay 
me  a  visit?  He  concluded  by  saying,  "  I  daresay 
you  know  what  I  want  to  speak  about.  I  have 
already  spoken  to  Pennell  on  the  subject,  and  he 
said,  'Go  to  Grossmith,  he  is  your  man.'  "  "  A  com- 
mission at  last,"  I  said  to  myself,  and  armed  with 
the  letter,  I  faced  the  duns  in  the  hall.  I  told  them 
it  amounted  to  a  two  hundred  and  fifty  guinea 
commission,  and  promised  them,  on  my  honour, 
they  should  be  the  first  to  be  considered;  they 
shook  me  warmly  by  the  hand  and  left  me  in 
peace. 

I  invited  Pritchard  Morgan  to  dinner,  I  still 
had  a  small  cellar  of  wine,  —  which  was  not  paid 
for,  —  I  did  him  very  well,  and  after  dinner  showed 
him  into  the  studio,  where  I  had  two  or  three  pic- 
tures on  the  easels,  and  had  arranged  to  have  a  very 
strong  light  thrown  upon  them,  the  rest  of  the  room 
being  in  darkness. 

He  looked  at  them  and  seemed  very  pleased,  and 
said,  "  Now,  Grossmith,  to  business." 

"  Right  you  are,"  I  replied,  lighting  another 
cigar,  and  ringing  a  bell  for  the  brandy  and  sodas. 
I  thought  to  myself,  "  I  won't  stick  him  too  much, 
but  three  hundred  guineas  for  three  life-size  chil- 
dren in  a  group  would  not  be  out  of  the  way,"  but 
I  was  also  willing  to  take  much  less,  in  fact,  half 
that  amount  as  things  were. 

We  filled  our  glasses,  and  when  the  servant  had 
left  the  room,  he  said  again,  "  Now,  Grossmith,  to 
business.  This  is  what  I  have  to  say:  you  know 
I  've  got  a  very  fair  collection  of  pictures  stored, 
and  as  I  shall  be  leaving  England  soon  I  am  going 

83 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

to  ask  you  as  a  friend,  what  do  you  advise  as  to  the 
best  means  of  disposing  of  them?  Pennell  thinks 
I  had  better  put  them  up  at  Christie's;  what  do  you 
think?  " 

Of  course  he  was  entirely  free  from  blame.  He 
had  never  given  me  a  commission,  he  might  have 
thought  of  doing  so,  but  had  never  even  hinted  it 
to  me,  but  it  was  a  hard  knock. 

I  went  about  as  much  as  I  possibly  could,  more 
or  less  touting  for  portraits,  and  making  myself 
particularly  agreeable  to  people  of  wealth.  Much 
as  I  should  like  to  have  taken  the  pretty  but  poor 
girl  down  to  dinner,  she  was  no  good  to  me.  She 
could  n't  give  me  a  commission  for  her  portrait,  and 
I  was  n't  laying  myself  open  to  matrimony  unless 
the  lady  had  money,  and  then  she  would  n't  have 
wanted  me.  Things  were  getting  so  desperate  that 
I  thought  at  one  time  of  taking  a  stringent  remedy 
in  the  form  of  marrying  a  lady  considerably  older 
than  myself  and  even  less  attractive,  who  had  a 
very  substantial  income.  I  had  had  the  hint  direct 
that  there  was  a  possibility  of  success  in  that  quarter. 
There  is  no  harm  in  my  telling  this  story,  I  need 
hardly  say  I  have  never  mentioned  these  facts  to 
anyone,  and  the  dear  lady  passed  to  a  happier  land 
many,  many  years  ago. 

I  don't  think  she  was  much  attached  to  me,  but 
she  felt  lonely,  and  I  felt  poor,  with  the  worst 
form  of  poverty.  I  had  n't  a  penny  and  owed  a 
heap. 

After  taking  her  to  several  theatres  and  picture 
exhibitions,  she  lunched  with  me,  and  as  she  was 
leaving  I  rather  sheepishly  said,  "  I  want,  some 
84 


DEBTS   AND   DIFFICULTIES 

time  or  other,  to  say  something  important  to  you, 
very  important." 

11  Very  well,"  she  answered,  "  come  and  spend  an 
afternoon  next  week  with  me,  and  we  '11  have  a  long 
chat.  I  '11  write  you,"  and  the  next  day  I  received 
a  letter  from  her. 

I  accepted  an  invitation  to  spend  the  day  at  her 
country  house,  about  fifteen  miles  from  London. 
I  went  prepared,  and  thought  it  all  out  in  the  train. 
When  I  arrived  about  tea  time,  I  wandered  round 
the  beautiful  grounds  with  her  and  then  admired  the 
pictures  and  objets  d'art,  and  later  sat  down  to  a 
most  excellent  dinner,  and  consumed  some  first- 
rate  wine.  I  admit  I  was  guilty  once  or  twice  of 
thinking  how  much  more  delightful  the  surround- 
ings would  be  with  somebody  I  could  really  care 
for.  Then  I  drank  another  glass  and  banished  the 
foolish  thought  with  the  feeling  of  a  slight  lump 
in  my  throat  of  "  what  might  have  been."  Then, 
with  a  hollow  laugh,  I  set  to  work  to  make  a 
desperate  impression,  but  there  was  no  need  for  it. 
I  was  playing  a  winning  game,  and  it  did  n't  matter 
what  card  I  played,  I  could  win,  and  win  easily. 

But  before  another  hour  had  passed  I  commenced 
to  see  myself  in  a  contemptible  position,  humbug- 
ging this  good  but  rather  weak-minded  lady  into 
the  belief  that  I  really  cared  for  her.  I  was  also 
selfishly  thinking  of  my  own  love  of  freedom,  and 
several  times  there  were  long  pauses  in  the  conversa- 
tion owing  to  my  profound  thought  and  abstraction, 
on  which  she  would  say,  "  What  are  you  thinking 
of,  Weedon?"  And  to  my  shame  I  would  reply, 
"  You,  dear."    Lies!    I  was  thinking  what  sort  of 

85 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

a  husband  I  should  make  under  the  circumstances, 
and  how  long  I  could  possibly  keep  up  the 
deception. 

Presently  we  arose  from  the  table,  and  soon  after- 
wards I  looked  at  my  watch,  and  said  the  time  had 
passed  so  rapidly  that  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late, 
and  wished  her  good-bye,  thanking  her  for  a  most 
charming  evening.  She  came  into  the  hall  and  held 
my  hand,  and  looking  me  straight  in  the  face,  said, 
"  Have  n't  you  something  that  you  particularly 
wanted  to  say  to  me  to-day,  Weedon?  " 

"  No,"  I  said,  rather  blankly,  "  I  don't  think  so, 
not  that  I  remember." 

"  On  our  last  meeting,"  she  said,  very  quietly  and 
in  deep  earnestness,  "  did  n't  you  tell  me  that  you 
wanted  to  say  something  that  was  of  great  impor- 
tance to  yourself?  " 

It  was  true.  Of  course  I  knew  what  she  meant, 
but  evaded  it,  and  replied,  "  No,  not  that  I  remem- 
ber —  unless  it  was  that  I  wanted  to  take  you  to 
the  Academy  next  week.  Yes  —  that  was  it  —  the 
Academy." 

"  Is  that  all?"  she  said,  "that's  not  important." 

"  No,  but  that 's  all  I  think  it  was,"  I  replied,  and 
shook  hands  with  her,  and  when  the  door  was  closed 
behind  me,  I  ran  down  the  road  at  full  speed  lest 
I  should  miss  the  train!  !  ejaculating  as  I  went, 
"I'm  free!    I'm  free!" 

I  got  back  to  Harley  Street  and  then  breathed 
again,  and  felt  ready  to  face  the  difficulties  and 
struggles  ahead. 

In  those  days  I  can  honestly  say  I  never  overdrew 
my  account  at  the  City  and  Midland  Bank  (Totten- 
86 


DEBTS   AND    DIFFICULTIES 

ham  Court  Road  Branch)  for  the  simple  reason 
that  they  would  n't  allow  me  to,  and  they  were 
right,  too.  My  balance  at  the  Bank  stood  at  about 
£6.10,  all  I  possessed  in  the  world,  and  my  debts 
amounted  to  over  £700  —  a  trifle  to  many  men, 
but  a  lot  to  me. 

Through  all  this  dreadful  run  of  ill-luck  I  did  n't 
know  which  way  to  turn.  I  had  several  small 
commissions  for  portraits  which  I  relied  on,  and 
even  these  fell  through,  and  being  a  proud  man,  I 
did  n't  go  about  proclaiming  my  ill-luck  from  the 
housetops  or  boring  my  friends  with  my  troubles, 
and  I  still  hoped  that  there  would  be  a  turn  soon  for 
the  better. 

It 's  a  dreadful  experience  when  your  regular 
tradesman  absolutely  refuses  to  let  you  have  any- 
thing else  on  credit  and  forces  you  to  go  elsewhere. 
You  are  received  as  a  new  customer  with  the  greatest 
civility,  you  order  something  to  be  made  and  you 
are  most  admirably  served.  But  when  you  tell  them 
they  will  receive  a  cheque  in  due  course,  the  trades- 
man hesitates  and  says,  "  One  minute,"  and  retires 
to  the  further  end  of  the  shop  or  into  another  room. 
You  imagine  he  has  left  his  pencil  behind,  and 
wants  to  take  down  your  address  again. 

Nothing  of  the  kind,  he  has  gone  into  the  office 
to  consult  a  Trade  Register.  He  finds  your  name 
in  a  few  seconds,  with  the  comment  that  you  are 
possibly  good  for  "  cash  custom  "  but  "  no  credit," 
or  something  of  the  kind. 

He  returns  and  informs  you  that  their  firm  gives 
no  credit,  that  the  profits  are  indeed  so  small  that 
they  are  obliged  to  ask  for  cash  down  before  the 

87 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

articles  are  delivered.  You  are  naturally  rather 
indignant.  You  say  you  are  not  accustomed  to  be 
treated  in  this  manner,  and  that  you  would  n't  deal 
with  anyone  where  you  could  n't  be  trusted.  The 
shopman  is  still  most  polite,  he  is  very  sorry,  and 
opens  the  door  to  you  and  bows  you  out.  "  Where 
next?"  you  ask  yourself.  Where,  indeed?  They 
all  have  that  book. 

My  old  friend  Brandon  Thomas,  the  author  of 
"  Charlie's  Aunt,"  was  having  a  rough  time  of  it 
also  in  his  rooms  in  Harley  Place,  Marylebone 
Road,  but  not  nearly  so  bad  as  I  was,  because  I 
was  supposed  to  be  well  off  and  had  to  keep  up 
appearances,  and  my  expenses  were  very  great. 
Pictures  which  in  the  ordinary  way  I  could  have 
sold  for  £50,  I  had  to  take  £5  and  £10  for.  When 
you  go  to  a  dealer  and  tell  him  you  must  sell  your 
pictures  and  must  have  the  money  at  once,  he  has 
got  you  "  on  toast "  and  can  get  your  work  for  any 
price  he  likes.  In  this  way  I  had  cleared  off  my 
stock  in  trade,  and  then  I  wanted  money,  lots  of  it. 

My  dear,  kind  friend  Frank  Holl  offered  to 
advance  me  several  hundred  pounds,  which  offer  I 
declined  and  I  would  n't  listen  for  a  moment  to  his 
suggestion.  My  brother  had  already  assisted  me  a 
little  financially,  but  I  did  n't  want  to  borrow.  The 
more  you  borrow,  the  more  you  may,  and  I  had 
already  borrowed  at  fifteen  per  cent  from  a  money 
lender  on  my  furniture,  etc.  It  was  during  these 
vicissitudes  that  I  thought  of  what  D'Oyly  Carte 
had  whispered  in  my  ear,  "  If  ever  you  should  fail 
in  Art,  write  to  me." 

So  in  strict  privacy  I  had  a  conversation  with 
88 


DEBTS   AND    DIFFICULTIES 

him  on  the  subject  of  going  on  the  stage.  He  said 
he  had  nothing  to  offer  at  present,  but  would  write 
to  me  at  the  first  opportunity. 

I  confided  my  intentions  of  going  on  the  stage 
to  Fildes  (now  Sir  Luke  Fildes),  and  he  thought 
it  was  madness,  when  I  had  conquered  all  the  great 
difficulties  of  painting,  to  throw  it  aside.  I  quite 
agreed  with  him,  but  when  I  told  him  of  my  dread- 
ful run  of  bad  luck,  and  the  little  I  had  sold,  he 
said  he  was  bound  to  admit  that  if  I  had  another 
string  to  play  on,  it  was  worth  considering.  But 
he  still  thought  it  an  awful  pity,  and  so  have  I 
thought  ever  since. 


89 


CHAPTER   VIII 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dobree 

I  THINK  managers  frequently  make  a  mistake 
by  preceding  a  three-act  farce  with  a  serious 
piece. 
It  is  supposed  to  add  strength  to  the  farce 
by  force  of  contrast.  But  it  is  hard  lines  for  those 
members  of  the  audience  who  have  been  looking 
forward  to  a  play  that  may  help  them  temporarily 
to  forget  their  troubles  and  cares,  to  have  arrived 
at  the  theatre  too  punctually  and  be  confronted 
with  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  a  play  that  deals  with 
misery  and  death ;  probably  a  poor  bank  clerk,  who, 
to  feed  his  half-starved  wife  and  children,  has 
manipulated  the  accounts  and,  fearing  detection, 
blows  out  his  brains  as  the  curtain  descends. 

A  similar  experience  occurred  to  me  in  the  early 
eighties. 

My  old  friend  Dobree  had  experienced  trouble 
and  sorrow  by  the  loss  of  a  near  relative,  and  had 
avoided  going  to  any  place  of  entertainment  for 
nearly  a  year.  But  one  evening  after  dinner  Dobree 
confided  in  me  that  he  would  like  to  go  to  a  theatre 
again,  if  he  could  be  sure  of  a  good  laugh,  and 
when  I  suggested  Toole,  his  eyes  positively 
glistened  with  delight.  On  the  spot,  I  invited  him 
90 


MR.    AND    MRS.    DOBREE 

and  his  wife  and  his  daughter  Kate  to  accompany 
me  —  I  knew  dear,  good-natured  Toole  was  always 
good  for  a  box  —  and  I  thought  this  a  very 
effective  and  cheap  way  of  returning  Dobree's 
hospitality  by  getting  seats  by  a  method  which  is 
termed  "  on  the  nod."     So  this  was  settled. 

Dobree  was  always  a  little  eccentric  and  fussy, 
and  said  he  must  insist  on  his  family  being  punctual. 
He  had  been  so  sad,  and  Toole  was  the  only  man 
in  London  who  could  make  him  laugh  (I  was  not 
on  the  stage  then!)  and  he  declared  he  would 
rather  be  half  an  hour  too  soon  than  five  minutes 
too  late.  With  the  result,  I  regret  to  say,  that  we 
were  half  an  hour  too  soon,  and  unfortunately  ar- 
rived in  the  middle  of  a  first  piece  of  the  class  I 
have  referred  to  in  which  "  The  Squire "  while 
out  rabbit  shooting  had  shot  and  killed  his  little 
fair-haired  boy,  and  had  a  long  illness  and  brain 
fever;  the  family  try  to  persuade  him  that  it 
was  only  a  dream,  but  the  scheme  fails  and 
he  has  a  most  harrowing  scene,  vividly  describing 
blood  on  the  child's  cheek  and  gibbering  at  the 
audience. 

This  was  too  much  for  Dobree,  who  had  been 
shifting  about  and  grumbling,  and  he  shouted  in 
his  short-breathed  manner,  "  Where  's-Toole? 
When  's-he-coming-on? "  The  band  had  com- 
menced to  play  soft  music,  generally  dubbed  by  the 
conductor  "  Heart  foam,"  and  the  audience  were 
crying  and  blowing  their  noses.  The  Squire  com- 
menced a  long  dying  scene  in  which  the  actor  re- 
quires absolute  silence  in  the  audience.  "  I  see 
Angels,"  he  observed,  "  I  'm  going  to  join  you,  my 

91 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

son,  your  father  is  coming."  On  this,  Dobree  rose 
from  his  seat  and  said  in  a  loud  voice,  "  This-is- 
most-offensive.  Where's  Toole?  I  came-to-see- 
Toole.     Why  isn't  he  playing?     It's  shameful!" 

There  were  cries  from  the  angry  pit:  "  Sit  down," 
"  Dry  up,  old  'un,"  "  Turn  him  out,  he  's  drunk." 
If  I  could  have  crawled  under  the  seat  I  would  have 
done  so.  We  tried  to  pacify  Dobree,  but  it  was 
no  good.  He  then  addressed  the  pit:  "  I  've-been- 
very-ill-and  came  here  at  Mr.  Weedon  Grossmith's 
recommendation  for-pleasant-diversion." 

Shouts  of  "  Shame,"  "  Order,"  "  Sit  down." 

Dobree  continued:  "Where's  Toole?  Why 
is  n't  he  playing?  "  An  attendant  came  up  and  re- 
quested him  to  be  silent,  and  he  again  asked  loudly 
"  Why  is  n't  Toole  playing?  " 

Dobree  said  he  had  been  brought  to  the  theatre 
under  false  pretences  and  should  complain  to  the 
management,  and  went  home  by  himself,  leaving 
his  wife  and  daughter  with  me  to  enjoy  Toole's 
performance. 

Dobree,  like  many  others  I  know,  thought  he  had 
a  fair  collection  of  pictures  at  Portman  Square 
(chiefly  old  masters)  and  prided  himself  on  his 
ability  in  "  picking  them  up  "  for  next  to  nothing, 
and  declared  that  the  picture  dealers  and  pawn- 
brokers from  whom  he  had  purchased  them  — 
mostly  abroad  —  were  ignorant  of  the  rare  treasures 
they  were  parting  with.  After  dinner,  when  the 
ladies  had  gone  into  the  drawing-room,  Dobree 
would  draw  attention  to  some  of  his  gems  in  the 
following  manner: 

"  Now,  Grossmith,  you  know  something  about 
92 


MR.    AND    MRS.    DOBREE 

pictures,  you  paint  yourself.  Did-you-ever-see-a- 
better  specimen-of-the  work  of  Sebastian  del 
Piombo,  hanging  on  the  left  side  of  the  mirror?  " 

"Never!"  I  promptly  answered.  I  had  had  a 
good  dinner  and  was  looking  forward  to  a  glass  of 
old  port,  and  Dobree  was  the  possessor  of  a  very 
fine  cellar  of  port. 

"  No,"  answered  Dobree,  "  because  you  can't  see 
a  better  specimen.  Major  Ferguson-has-just  told 
me  that-there-is  not  a  better  one  in  the  National 
Gallery."  (No  one  knew  better  than  the  Major 
how  to  successfully  lead  up  to  the  tapping  of  a 
special  bottle  of  '37  port.)  "Well,"  continued 
Dobree,  "  that  picture-which  I  know  to-be-worth 
seven  hundred  pounds,  I  picked  up  at  Brussels  for 
three-pounds-ten-shillings  and-sixpence." 

The  Major,  while  draining  the  port  decanter 
near  him,  would  exclaim,  "Marvellous!  You're 
a  great  judge,  sir!  " 

Dobree  with  a  satisfied  smile  would  acknowledge 
the  compliment,  by  saying,  "  I-think-I-know-a- 
little-about-pictures." 

Harry,  the  son  of  the  house,  from  the  other  end 
of  the  table  would  shout,  "  Help  yourself,  Major, 
and  pass  the  poison!" 

"  Don't  be  vulgar,  Harry.  It 's  not  character- 
istic of  our  family,"  from  Dobree.  "  There  's-a- 
Titian-and  there  's-a-Moroni,  worth-more-than-I- 
would-like-to-say." 

With  solemnity  the  Major,  twisting  the  stem  of 
his  empty  glass,  would'  utter,  "  Four  figures,  I 
imagine,"  and  with  exultant  pride  Dobree  would 
reply, 

93 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

"At  least,  Major,  at  least,  and-would-you- 
believe-it,  I  paid  fourteen-pounds-for-the-pair! " 

The  son  of  the  house  again  shouted  across  the 
polished  mahogany,  "  It 's  robbery,  that 's  what  it 
is,  sir.  Robbery!  It's  not  fair,  your  buying 
pictures." 

The  father,  quite  pleased,  would  retort,  "  Be 
quiet,  Harry  I  You 're-gesticulating-more-than-is- 
becoming  in  the  presence-of-two  famous  connois- 
seurs, and  must-moderate-your-opinions.  You- 
know-more-about-trolling-for-pike-than-the  paint- 
er's art  .  .  .  and  silence  from-you-would-be-more- 
becoming." 

The  son,  knowing  he  had  scored  a  point,  would 
follow  up  by  saying,  "  Well,  the  Guv'nor's  right, 
but  I  still  venture  to  say  that  for  a  little  private 
dining  crib,  like  this,  I  never  wish  to  see  better 
pictures." 

"  Because  you  can't,  my  lad.  I  have  the  finest 
Moroni  in  Portman  Square." 

"  Or  any  other  Square,"  snapped  out  the  Major, 
still  twisting  an  empty  glass.  "  They  don't  grow 
on  apple  trees.    That's  a  great  work  of  art,  sir!" 

I  remained  silent,  thinking  that  one  follower  of 
Ananias  was  enough  and  more  than  enough  in  the 
circumstances.  But  the  son,  who  I  rather  suspect 
was  going  to  do  the  "  borrowing  act  "  the  following 
morning  and  touch  the  Guv.  for  a  pony,  was  de- 
termined to  be  on  the  right  side  of  the  parent,  and, 
seated  with  his  thumbs  in  his  waistcoat  pockets  as 
he  reclined  in  a  comfortable  armchair,  bellowed 
across  the  table,  "  Well,  what  I  say  is  this,  and 
correct  me,  gentlemen,  if  I  am  wrong,  but  I  say 
94 


MR.    AND    MRS.    DOBREE 

my  father  is  the  best  judge  of  pictures  in  London, 
and  you  can  take  it  or  leave  it.  The  best,  bar 
none." 

To  which  the  Major  would  tap  the  table  and 
ejaculate  with  a  "  Hear!  Hear  I  "  and  Dobree,  with 
a  heavenly  smile  spreading  over  his  face,  would 
kindly  correct  his  son,  saying,  "  You  must  n't 
be  stupid,  my  lad.  By  the  way,  tell-Lambert-to- 
bring  up  a  bottle-of-the  '37-port.  The  Major-and 
Grossmith  appreciate  a  good-glass-of  wine." 

Although  I  felt  heartily  ashamed  of  being  a  party 
in  any  way  to  the  bottle  trick,  on  the  other  hand 
it  is  the  worst  policy  ever  to  disparage  the  works 
of  Art  in  a  friend's  house,  and  Dobree  had  some 
very  good  ones  also.  The  collector  has  to  live  with 
his  pictures  and  probably  places  a  higher  value 
on  them  than  they  deserve,  but  he  is  happy,  so  why 
severely  criticise  them?  "  Where  ignorance  is 
bliss  't  is  folly  to  be  wise,"  and  Dobree  was  happy 
in  thinking  that  he  possessed  some  very  fine  and 
rare  pictures  which  he  had  acquired  for  a  trifle, 
so  I  was  n't  going  to  undeceive  him. 

I  went  down,  many  months  afterwards,  to  Law- 
ford  Hall  near  Manningtree  in  Essex,  to  the 
Dobrees'  country  house,  to  spend  Christmas  with 
them.  When  I  arrived  the  ladies  were  out  driv- 
ing and  I  was  requested  to  join  Mr.  Dobree  in  the 
library,  who,  I  was  informed  by  the  footman,  was 
"  not  very  well."  I  found  my  host  in  an  armchair 
asleep;  he  roused  himself  on  my  entrance  and 
seemed  glad  to  see  me.  I  said  I  was  sorry  to  hear 
he  was  not  well;  he  denied  this  assertion  and  de- 
clared he  never  felt  better,  but  told  me  he  had  re- 

95 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

ceived  a  great  shock.  He  shut  the  door  and 
mysteriously  informed  me  he  was  going  to  tell  me 
something  that  he  should  not  tell  either  to  his  wife 
or  his  daughters,  but  it  was  a  blow  that  it  was  hard 
to  recover  easily  from. 

I  felt  most  embarrassed,  and  said  I  was  not 
desirous  of  knowing  any  family  secret  that  he  did 
not  wish  his  wife  to  know.  He  insisted,  and  pushed 
me  back  into  a  chair.  He  then  referred  to  his  col- 
lection of  old  masters  in  the  following  manner: 

"  Grossmith,"  he  said,  "  you  know  that  Sebastian- 
del-Piombo,  and-that-Titian,  and  the-Moroni,  to 
say  nothing-of-the-Holbein  that-hangs-over-the- 
sideboard?  You  Ve  dined  with  us-often-enough-to 
remember  them." 

"  I  know  them  all,"  I  replied. 

"  Well,"  he  continued,  "  I-was-desirous-of-hav- 
ing-an-expert-opinion-for  valuation-for-insurance, 
and  I  succeeded  in  getting  the-best-judge-in-the- 
world  to  Portman  Square.  The  great  Agnew,  who 
after    a    rapid-glance    at-them    said-they-were-all 

d d    bad    copies    and    not    worth-two-pence-a 

piece." 

Being  an  Exhibitor  at  the  Royal  Academy  en- 
titles one  to  an  invitation  to  the  Annual  Reception. 
On  one  occasion  being  anxious  to  show  some  slight 
hospitality  and  politeness  to  a  lady  —  who  was  a 
patron  of  Art  —  having  commissioned  me  to  paint 
her  portrait  and  also  having  obtained  other  com- 
missions for  me  from  her  friends  —  I  secured,  with 
considerable  difficulty,  another  card,  and  invited  her 
to  accompany  me  to  the  Soiree  as  it  is  termed.  The 
lady  I  speak  of  was  a  handsome  woman  of  forty 

96 


MR.    AND    MRS.    DOBREE 

who  dressed  extremely  well.  She  good-naturedly 
offered  to  call  for  me  in  her  brougham,  and  to  drive 
me  home  afterwards.  We  had  a  delightful  evening 
admiring  the  pictures  and  chatting  to  numerous 
friends  and  brother  artists  whom  I  presented  to  my 
fair  patroness,  and  as  we  descended  to  the  entrance 
I  caught  sight  of  the  President,  Sir  Frederick 
Leighton,  just  bidding  good-bye  to  some  important 
notabilities  whom  he  had  seen  to  their  carriage. 
As  he  turned  he  saw  me,  and  said  something  with 
his  delightful  smile,  so  I  boldly  asked  his  permis- 
sion to  present  him  to  my  friend,  —  "  Mrs.  Million- 
etti,"  we  will  call  her  —  which  greatly  delighted 
her.  We  then  passed  out,  as  her  brougham  was 
drawn  up  and  was  blocking  the  way  of  others. 
I  handed  her  in  and  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  said 
loudly  to  the  coachman,  "  Home,"  and  took  my 
seat  beside  her;  but  the  carriage  did  not  move  so 
I  put  out  my  head  and  almost  shouted,  —  "  Home, 
—  did  n't  you  hear  me  say  Home?  "  "  Yes,"  replied 
the  coachman,  "  but  where  is  it?  "  I  was  conscious 
of  the  broad  grin  on  the  face  of  Moodie,  the 
grandly  arrayed  porter  at  the  R.  A.,  as  I  had  to 
give  the  address  carefully  and  minutely.  The  ex- 
planation of  this  incident  being  that  jobmasters  do 
not  always  send  the  same  coachman  to  "  fetch  and 
carry." 

The  following  week  Mrs.  Dobree  and  myself 
went  by  train  from  Manningtree  to  a  village  near 
Woodbridge  to  see  some  pictures  that  she  had 
heard  a  farmer  had  in  his  old  farmhouse,  most 
of  which  he  alleged  had  belonged  to  his  parents, 
and  some  he  had  "picked  up"  himself,  and  was  dis- 

97 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

posed  to  sell.  Even  in  those  early  days  I  rather 
suspected  the  farmer  with  a  taste  for  pictures,  but 
I  thought  it  does  n't  do  to  be  too  suspicious  and  I 
admit  looking  forward  to  our  little  jaunt  in  pursuit 
of  a  bargain. 

It  is  well  known  that  Crome  and  Constable 
painted  some  of  their  best  work  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Denham  Vale,  Manningtree,  and  Wood- 
bridge,  and  indeed  all  round  that  neighbourhood, 
and  judging  from  the  vast  number  of  paintings  attri- 
buted to  these  great  masters  which  one  sees  distribu- 
ted about  in  shops  and  alehouses  in  Essex  one  would 
imagine  they  grew  there.  Dobree  declined  to  ac- 
company us,  feeling,  as  he  said,  "rather  tired  of 
pictures." 

My  hostess  was  very  keen  on  getting  a  good  Con- 
stable or  Crome  for  a  reasonable  price  and  ex- 
hibited a  great  deal  of  excitement  during  our  pro- 
gress in  the  train.  When  at  length  she  heard 
the  porter  announce  the  name  of  the  station 
"  Woodbridge!  "  she  was  almost  on  the  point  of 
alighting  before  the  train  stopped,  and  putting  her 
head  out  of  the  window  shouted  to  the  station- 
master,  "Where  are  the  Cromes  and  Turners?" 

The  perplexed  station-master  asked  if  Mrs. 
Dobree  was  expecting  them. 

11  Not  Turner,"  I  said,  "  let 's  leave  him  out." 

"  I  don't  think,"  said  the  station-master,  "  any 
parties  have  been  here  of  those  names." 

"  Bother  Turner,"  said  Mrs.  Dobree,  "  I  want 
to  see  the  Constables  at  Ifling." 

The  station-master,  still  eager  to  oblige,  gazed  in 
the  air  and  then  on  the  footboard  of  the  train  and 
98 


MR.   AND    MRS.    DOBREE 

said,  "Oh  yes,  madam,  pardon.  There  was  one 
here  five  minutes  ago,  but  he  's  off  duty  now." 

I  then  explained  that  we  were  desirous  of  seeing 
a  collection  of  pictures  belonging  to  a  farmer 
somewhere  in  Woodbridge.  This  he  understood, 
and  directed  us  to  The  Old  Farmhouse,  a  quarter 
of  an  hour's  drive  from  the  station.  We  were  re- 
ceived by  the  collector;  whether  his  make-up  was 
genuine  or  otherwise  I  am  not  able  to  say,  but  he 
wore  high  gaiters,  and  an  old  tweed  suit,  and  looked 
like  the  conventional  stage  farmer.  I  never  saw 
so  many  Cromes  and  Constables  in  my  life.  They 
say  Etty's  works  would  have  filled  Westminster 
Abbey,  and  I  'm  sure  this  collection  came  in  a 
good  second.  It  was  a  very  large  farmhouse. 
Every  room,  including  the  bedrooms  and  out- 
houses, were  filled  with  the  works  of  these  great 
masters. 

A  small  Crome  could  be  acquired  for  a  hundred 
pounds  and  a  three-foot  Constable  for  a  thousand. 
Mrs.  Dobree  was  inclined  to  purchase  two  or  three 
at  these  nominal  prices,  but  a  squeeze  of  the  wrist 
from  me,  accompanied  by  a  violent  shake  of  the 
head,  made  her  refrain  from  doing  so. 

I  modestly  asked  this  private  Essex  collector 
whether  the  great  London  dealers  knew  that  he  had 
such  a  valuable  collection,  and  if  so,  why  did  n't  he 
sell  to  them?  For  even  in  those  days  (1883)  a 
thousand  pounds  was  not  a  large  price  for  a  fine 
Constable!  He  was  very  indignant,  and  replied 
that  he  would  n't  permit  a  dealer  inside  his  house, 
and,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  said  he  absolutely  re- 
fused to  sell  to  dealers.     He  was  pleased  to  sell  to 

99 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

the  gentry,  but  the  gentry  only,  and  the  name  of 
Dobree  had  been  known  in  Essex  for  some  centu- 
ries. But  noticing  that  Mrs.  Dobree  was  off  buy- 
ing, he  took  me  aside  privately  and  said : 

"  Don't  spoil  things  by  throwing  cold  water,  and 
I  '11  give  you  thirty  per  cent  commission." 

I  need  hardly  say  they  were  very  ordinary  copies 
of  landscapes,  and  some  slightly  resembled  the  style 
of  Crome  and  Constable. 

The  Dobrees  used  to  entertain  very  largely  at 
one  time  at  Portman  Square,  and  Mrs.  Dobree  had 
asked  me  to  a  party  and  reminded  me  to  come 
pretty  early,  and  told  me  that  her  last  reception 
was  such  a  huge  success,  that  the  crowd  was  so  great 
at  one  time  during  the  evening,  that  three  people 
fainted  on  the  staircase.  I  accepted  her  kind  invi- 
tation, and  as  the  society  papers  say,  "Everybody 
who  was  anybody  was  there,"  and  "  others  equally 
well  known." 

Mrs.  Dobree,  bouquet  in  hand,  was  stationed 
at  the  head  of  the  staircase  receiving  her  guests, 
and  I  happened  to  be  near  her  when  the  following 
incident  occurred. 

I  observed  a  fine  array  of  colour  moving  along 
the  hall, — it  was  the  arrival  of  the  Chinese  Ambas- 
sador and  his  suite, — and  being  late  in  the  evening 
a  young  and  inexperienced  footman  had  tempo- 
rarily taken  the  place  of  the  butler  who  had  been 
announcing  the  guests.  The  Chinese  Ambassador 
told  him  how  to  pronounce  the  names,  but  as  there 
were  several  gentlemen  with  him  the  man  thought 
it  would  be  more  correct  to  announce  "  the  Chinese 
Ambassador  and  his  Sweets!" —  which  he  did. 
ioo 


MR.    AND    MRS.    DOBREE 

The  same  idiot  shortly  afterwards  announced 
the  actor,  Mr.  Earl  Douglas,  as  the  Earl  of 
Douglas,  and  he  was  beset  by  several  mothers  and 
their  unmarriageable  daughters,  but  on  learning  he 
was  only  Mr.  Earl  Douglas  playing  a  ten-line  part 
at  the  Haymarket  Theatre,  he  was  given  the  cold 
shoulder  very  quickly.  It  was  a  very  pleasant  and 
amusing  evening,  and  as  we  were  departing,  a  Mrs. 
Bradshaw,  a  lady  with  corkscrew  curls  a  la  Leech 
drawings  in  the  back  numbers  of  Punch,  pointing 
to  an  old  gentleman  in  the  corner  of  the  room  who 
was  asleep,  said  to  me : 

"  It 's  a  funny  thing,  but  I  fajicy  I  know  everyone 
here  except  that  old  gentleman  in  the  corner.  Do 
you  know  who  it  is?" 

"  Yes,  madam,"  I  replied,  "  I  do.  That  is  our 
host!" 


IOI 


CHAPTER   IX 

Fishing  Stories 

I  TOTALLY  disagree  with  Dr.  Johnson's  con- 
tempt for  fishing,  which  he  sums  up  as  a 
"worm  at  one  end  and  a  fool  at  the  other."  Dr. 
Johnson  knew  nothing  about  fishing  and  was 
therefore  not  competent  to  express  an  opinion  on  the 
subject.  Had  he  been  a  fisherman,  he  might  have 
discovered  more  pleasure  and  health  on  the  banks 
of  the  silent  stream  than  in  listening  to  his  own 
voice  for  too  many  hours  at  a  time  in  the  fetid 
atmosphere  of  Fleet  Street  pothouses. 

Byron  in  Don  Juan  got  nearer  the  truth  when  he 
described  angling  as  a  solitary  vice. 

"Angling  too  that  solitary  vice, 

Whatever  Isaac  Walton  sings  or  says, 

That  quaint  and  cruel  old  coxcomb  in  his  gullet 

Should  have  a  hook  and  a  small  trout  to  pull  it." 

All  sports,  I  am  afraid,  are  cruel,  but  whether 
you  are  crawling  on  your  hands  and  knees  on  the 
banks  of  the  Rivers  Test  or  Itchin  with  your  light 
split-cane  rod  and  your  tin  box  of  dry  flies,  stalking 
a  trout,  or  approaching  an  old  Monastery  pond  on 
tiptoe  at  daybreak  in  pursuit  of  carp  or  roach,  there 
is  the  element  of  vice  about  it  —  the  element  of  the 
knave,  but  not  the  fool. 

What  is  termed  coarse  fishing  is  more  or  less  a 
102 


FISHING    STORIES 

solitary  vice.  Alone  on  the  banks  of  a  private  pond 
or  lake,  perfectly  quiet,  sitting  on  a  camp-stool,  or 
hiding  behind  a  bush  watching  the  tip  of  a  float,  so 
shotted  that  it  is  only  half  an  inch  out  of  the  water. 
How  still  it  is!  Then  a  twist,  a  slight  movement, 
now  it  travels  sideways,  jibs,  then  suddenly  disap- 
pears. The  "  strike,"  the  "  tang  "  of  the  gut  line, 
you  have  hooked  a  good  two-pounder,  quietly, 
quietly,  don't  hurry,  he  shows  his  silver  sides  and 
red  fins,  get  the  net  ready  in  left  hand,  you  keep 
your  seat  if  possible,  draw  him  along,  you  have  him, 
and  with  a  splash  you  put  him  in  the  "  keep  net " 
pegged  down  to  the  bank.  A  little  more  paste  on 
the  hook,  a  little  more  ground  bait  thrown  in,  you 
are  ready  again,  and  all  so  quiet  and  solitary.  "  The 
Solitary  Vice." 

Fishing  always  had  a  great  fascination  for  me. 
I  commenced  at  the  bottom  rung  of  the  fishing 
ladder,  fishing  for  Minnows  and  Gudgeon  in  the 
Regents  Park  Lake  before  the  great  Ice  accident,  — 
and  in  the  Hampstead  ponds.  I  seldom  caught  any- 
thing in  those  young  days,  but  I  persevered.  I  had 
a  three-jointed  sixpenny  hazel  fishing  rod  and  a 
penny  line.  I  kept  my  fishing  rod  behind  a  bush  in 
the  front  garden,  for  I  was  not  allowed  to  go  fish- 
ing in  case  I  tumbled  into  the  water.  I  used  to 
fish  at  the  sluice  house  on  the  New  River  close  to 
the  Seven  Sisters  Road,  a  very  pretty  place,  with 
beautiful  fields  all  round,  but  all  built  over  about 
twenty-five  years  ago. 

I  also  fished  in  the  lake  in  the  grounds  of  the 
Hornsey  Wood  Tavern,  which  is  now  Finsbury 
Park,  but  I  did  n't  catch  any  fish  there.    Sometimes 

103 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

at  these  tea-garden  fisheries  you  bought  what  was 
called  a  refreshment  ticket  which  entitled  you,  as 
it  said  on  the  card,  to  "  Fish  in  the  Lake,"  and  you 
could  have  sixpennyworth  of  refreshments  in 
addition. 

The  lake  was  generally  a  small  muddy  pond,  con- 
taining a  few  large  carp  who  knew  too  much  to  take 
a  bait  with  a  hook  projecting. 

I  had  purchased  a  book  on  Angling  by  Robert 
Blakey,  evidently  republished  by  the  late  George 
Routledge,  whom  I  reminded  years  ago  how  mis- 
leading his  book  might  be,  for  it  was  still  being 
sold  as  an  up-to-date  guide  as  "  Where  to  fish  "  as 
late  as  1890.  It  gives  a  full  account  of  excellent 
sport  to  be  obtained  in  the  "  West  India  Docks." 
"  And  the  private  fisheries  near  Shepherd's  Bush, 
Bayswater,  which  lies  within  a  sixpenny  ride  from 
the  Bank  of  England."  It  read  "  that  they  are  fair 
collections  of  water,  have  a  tolerable  stock  of 
Barbie,  Roach  and  Dace,  and  there  is  accommoda- 
tion for  refreshments."  "  Sometimes  rod  anglers, 
succeed  in  taking  away  five  and  twenty  or  thirty 
pounds'  weight  of  fish."  "  The  names  of  these 
waters  are  Willow  Vale  Fishery,  Victoria  Fishery, 
and  The  Star  Fishery.  The  ordinary  charge  is  one 
shilling  a  day."  Imagine  an  angler,  a  foreigner 
perchance,  looking  out  for  that  "  sixpenny "  bus, 
as  he  stands  with  all  his  fishing  gear:  rods,  camp- 
stool,  live  bait  can,  and  mackintosh,  and  eventually 
getting  into  some  kind  of  bus  that  goes  to  Bays- 
water,  filled  with  hope  and  the  pleasure  of  a  fine 
day's  sport,  directing  the  conductor  to  put  him 
down  at  the  "Willow  Vale  Fishery  1" 
104 


FISHING    STORIES 

These  ponds  might  have  been  there  and  open  to 
anglers  up  to  sixty  years  ago,  but  for  the  last  fifty 
years  surely,  rows  of  streets  have  covered  those 
haunts  of  "  Solitary  Vice." 

"  Best's  Art  of  Angling,"  published  in  1804,  gives 
a  full  description  of  the  most  likely  places  for  catch- 
ing fish  on  the  Thames.  It  directs  you  "  always  to 
pitch  your  boat  under  the  wind!  That  is,  if  the 
wind  be  South,  then  keep  on  the  Surrey  shore;  if 
North,  on  the  London  side.  The  best  places  for 
pitching  a  boat  to  angle  in  the  Thames  are  about 
one  hundred  and  fifty  yards  from  York  Stairs. 
The  Savoy,  Somerset  House,  Dorset  Stairs,  Black- 
friars  Stairs,  Trig  Stairs  and  Essex  Stairs.  On 
Surrey  side,  Falcon  Stairs;  Barge  Houses,  Cuper's 
Vulgo,  Cupid's  Stairs,  The  Windmill  and 
Lambeth." 

"  There  are  very  good  roach  and  dace  to  be 
caught  at  Westminster  Bridge,  if  the  weather  is 
favourable  in  the  Autumn.  The  fifth  Arch  on  the 
North  side  is  best  to  pitch  the  boat "  !  !  ! 

Other  books  inform  the  hopeful  Angler  that  good 
sport  consisting  of  "  Goldfish  and  Tench  is  to  be 
obtained  at  the  Pond  in  front  of  Canonbury  Tower." 

Also  the  pond  in  front  of  Copenhagen  House, 
Islington,  the  Famous  Tea  Gardens,  where  accord- 
ing to  Baron  Nicholson  of  Judge  and  Jury  fame, 
"  the  water  to  make  the  tea  for  the  Company  was 
dipped  from  the  pond,  where  anglers  were  fishing 
for  Tench  and  ground  baiting  with  clay  and 
chopped  up  worms!" 

The  Cattle  Market  now  stands  on  the  grounds 
of  these  famous  Tea  Gardens.     The  New  River 

105 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

in  front  of  the  Sadlers  Wells  Theatre  was  in  his 
(Nicholson's)  day  open  and  free  to  anglers,  and  the 
demand  in  the  neighbourhood  was  so  great  for 
Tackle  and  Fishing  Rods  that  Carter's  Angling 
Shop  was  started  in  a  small  way  one  hundred  years 
ago  at  the  corner  of  the  John  Street  Road;  now  it 
is  a  flourishing  business,  wholesale  and  retail. 

I  have  fished  in  the  old  ponds  at  St.  Osyth  Priory, 
the  late  Sir  Henry  Johnson's  lovely  estate,  where 
the  carp  run  to  ten  and  fifteen  pounds,  but  you  can't 
catch  them ;  an  eel  will  take  the  bait  while  the  carp 
is  thinking  the  matter  over.  I  fished  at  Shoreham 
Gardens  near  Brighton  with  the  same  result.  All 
the  tea  garden  fisheries  round  London  have  disap- 
peared. I  presume  the  sale  of  the  property  for 
building  purposes  has  paid  a  better  dividend  than 
the  "  fishing  refreshment  ticket  "  ever  did. 

The  Welsh  Harp  at  Hendon  and  the  Lake  at 
Elstree  are  full  of  fish.  I  have  caught  Perch  at 
Elstree  as  fast  as  I  could  bait  my  hooks  in  the  old 
days,  twenty  years  ago,  and  have  taken  some  decent 
Jack  out  of  Ruislip  Reservoirs  in  the  winter. 

Fishing  in  Reservoirs  is  always  a  very  uncertain 
sport.  I  have  fished  in  many  with  more  or  less  suc- 
cess, generally  less,  including  the  huge  reservoirs  at 
Finsbury,  Sunbury,  and  Tring.  They  all  contain 
very  large  fish,  but  as  these  deep  waters  are  full  of 
small  fry  of  all  sorts,  there  is  no  reason  why  a 
Jack  or  Perch  should  prefer  a  stiff-looking  fish  for 
food  with  half  a  dozen  hooks  attached  to  it  when 
he  can  easily  obtain  a  live  youngster  without  these 
dangerous  attachments.  An  old  fishing  friend  of 
mine,  —  Alexander  Baxter  of  Somerset  House,  — 
1 06 


FISHING    STORIES 

10  excited  me  over  the  great  possibilities  of  Lord 
Rothschild's  famous  Reservoirs  at  Tring,  where  he 
had  obtained  permission  to  fish,  that  he  was  ready 
to  bet  with  me  that,  besides  taking  two  or  three 
dozen  large  Perch,  I  would  capture  a  brace  of 
Jack  that  would  turn  the  scale  at  forty  pounds.  He 
assured  me  it  was  almost  a  certainty,  and  my  vivid 
imagination  pictured  these  fine  specimens  set  up 
in  my  Hall,  with  the  label  "  caught  at  Tring,  with 
single  gut  line,  etc."  And  indeed,  after  a  second 
glass  of  port  at  Short's  in  the  Strand  where  we 
had  adjourned  to  make  the  final  arrangements,  he 
whispered  in  my  ear,  it  would  not  surprise  him  if 
I  took  a  single  fish  weighing  thirty  pounds!  ! ! 

I  could  already  feel  the  heavy  tug  of  the  line,  and 
as  he  wished  me  good-bye  he  said  there  was  only 
one  thing  against  Tring  which  applied  to  all  Reser- 
voir fishing,  and  that  was  if  they  should  happen  to 
be  "  pumping,"  drawing  off  the  water,  it  frightened 
the  fish,  but  with  great  assurance  he  added,  "  We 
need  n't  trouble  about  that,  as  it  only  occurs  once 
in  a  blue  moon." 

I  crossed  the  road  to  Farlow's  and  spent  a  pound 
on  extra  tackle. 

At  length  the  wished-for  day  arrived,  and,  it 
being  winter,  the  best  time  of  year  for  getting  hold 
of  the  big  'uns,  I  had  to  be  called  at  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  To  me  a  most  objectionable  hour 
to  be  disturbed,  but  I  had  no  alternative,  "  it  had 
to  be."  So  I  had  my  bath,  a  cold  one  (no  hot 
water  being  available),  dressed  and  shaved  by  gas- 
light. It  was  certainly  warmer  than  the  more  mod- 
ern electric  light. 

107 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

Breakfast  I  was  not  inclined  for.  My  supper 
I  had  only  finished  four  hours  previously  in  the 
congenial  company  of  J.  L.  Toole,  Sir  Henry 
Irving,  and  Tom  Thorne,  and  I  was  not  hungry, 
but,  strange  to  say,  I  was  thirsty.  So,  after  two  cups 
of  tea,  no  cab  being  available,  I  stamped  it  to 
Euston  Station,  where  I  met  my  cheery  friend,  who 
was  full  of  health  and  vigour,  having  gone  to  bed 
the  previous  night  at  9.30,  and  informed  me  his 
rest  was  frequently  disturbed  by  wild  dreams,  and 
waking  up  with  a  start  just  as  he  had  hooked  a 
twenty-pounder. 

We  certainly  had  a  most  enjoyable  day.  There 
was  no  pause  in  the  conversation.  We  "  lied  "  for 
hours  about  the  fish  we  had  each  caught  in  the 
past  and  the  big  'uns  that  had  broken  the  tackle 
and  escaped.  They  are  always  jo  big  when  they 
break  the  line.  The  lunch  in  the  punt  was  excel- 
lent; it  always  is.  Never  was  a  pie  so  good.  The 
hard-boiled  eggs  above  suspicion.  And  the  cheese! 
Excellent !  Where  could  you  get  such  cheese  except 
at  the  village  inn  at  Tring?  Certainly  not  in 
London!  The  drink  which  Baxter  had  provided 
was  beyond  reproach,  also  the  cigars,  which  we 
smoked  at  intervals  between  the  pipes.  It  was 
indeed  a  pleasant  day.  There  was  only  one  draw- 
back to  our  piscatorial  outing.  "  They  were  un- 
fortunately pumping."    Basket,  "  Nil."!! 

Fish  are  so  unreasonable;  why  should  they  fast 
because  a  few  gallons  of  water  are  withdrawn  from 
their  haunts? 

It  does  n't  affect  our  appetites  in  times  of  drought 
when  the  water  board  asks  us  to  economise,  but 
108 


FISHING    STORIES 

then,  we  are  not  fish.  The  Thames  I  have  fished 
from  Kew  to  Goring,  and  caught  more  at  Hamp- 
ton than  anywhere  else  on  the  Thames;  perhaps  I 
knew  the  swims  better  there  —  a  very  important 
fact  wherever  you  fish. 

The  late  Heather  Bigg  —  the  surgeon  —  and  I 
used  to  fish  together  a  good  deal  at  one  time,  and  I 
introduced  him  to  the  delights  of  the  Hampshire 
Avon  at  Ringwood,  an  ideal  picturesque  country 
village.  I  never  knew  such  a  famous  river  for 
large  roach.  I  have  a  couple  set  up  in  a  case 
which  I  caught  there,  one  just  under  two  pounds 
and  the  other  just  over.  The  top  weight,  I  think, 
for  roach. 

My  friend  George  Spencer  Bower,  K.  C,  joined 
Heather  Bigg  and  myself  on  one  occasion.  He 
said  he  would  like  to  stay  a  day  or  two  at  the  old 
Inn,  but  he  did  n't  care  to  fish.  He  agreed  with 
Dr.  Johnson  on  that  subject.  However  we  per- 
suaded him  to  alter  his  mind,  and  rigged  him  up 
with  a  rod  and  line.  But  Heather  and  myself  were 
obliged  to  have  a  private  consultation ;  we  did  n't 
want  Bower  too  near  us,  fishing  in  our  particular 
swims,  and  disturbing  the  fish  and  doing  no 
good  for  himself  (for  he  was  quite  a  novice), 
so  we  placed  him  on  the  bank  in  a  bend  of  the 
river,  where  a  few  fish  have  been  seen  but  not 
often  caught,  and  well  away  from  our  happy  hunt- 
ing grounds. 

The  weather  was  not  favourable  to  sport;  it  sel- 
dom is.  There  are  always  about  a  dozen  obstacles, 
at  least,  against  your  ever  catching  any  fish.  The 
weather  is  "  too  hot  or  too  cold."    "  Wind  too  strong 

109 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

or  no  ripple  on  the  river,  at  all."  The  water  "  too 
thick,  like  pea  soup,"  the  angler  describes  it,  or  as 
clear  as  "  gin,"  both  most  unfavourable  conditions. 
The  wind  in  the  East,  or  thunder  about,  too  many 
weeds  in  the  water,  or  else  they  are  cutting  the 
weeds  up  stream,  and  the  fish  are  getting  too  much 
"  feed  "  from  the  insects  off  the  floating  weeds.  The 
water  is  "too  high  or  too  low."  Always  some 
excuse. 

So,  with  some  of  these  drawbacks  against  us, 
Heather  Bigg  and  myself  did  n't  do  too  well,  al- 
though we  had  the  only  punt  on  the  river  and  com- 
manded everything. 

We  picked  up  a  few  fish,  because  we  are  both 
fairly  expert  fishermen,  but  nothing  to  speak  of, 
or  even  to  keep,  for  we  threw  them  back  as  being 
undersized.  So,  having  done  all  we  knew  with 
poor  results,  we  punted  back  to  Spencer  Bower; 
we  felt  rather  ashamed,  but  the  lunch  basket  was 
in  our  punt,  and  we  had  stayed  down  stream  longer 
than  we  intended,  and  knew  he  must  be  hungry. 

We  fastened  up  the  boat  and  asked  him  what  he 
had  done. 

11  Not  bad,"  he  replied,  "  thanks  for  putting  me 
in  such  a  good  place.  I  don't  know  whether  it 's 
good  sport  or  bad,  having  had  practically  no  exper- 
ience in  angling,  and  I  don't  know  the  names  of  the 
things  I  've  caught."  To  the  amazement  of 
Heather  and  myself,  the  first  fish  we  caught  sight 
of  was  a  two-and-a-half-pound  grayling,  and 
another  nearly  as  big,  about  a  dozen  roach  averag- 
ing a  pound,  half  a  dozen  perch,  one  a  good  two 
pounds  and  a  half.  It  was  almost  impossible  to 
no 


THE   SLUICE    HOUSK   ON    THE    NEW    RIVER,    HOLLOWAY,    N. 


FISHING    STORIES 

disguise  the  expression  of  surprise  and  disgust  and 
almost  anger  on  our  faces. 

When  we  had  recovered  from  the  shock,  Heather 
Bigg  said,  "  Yes,  I  knew  it  was  a  good  pitch,  or  we 
should  n't  have  put  you  there." 

And  all  I  could  feebly  utter  was,  "  Rather!  I  'm 
surprised  you  did  n't  do  better!  !  "  We  felt  pretty 
sick,  and  it  did  n't  take  Spencer  Bower  long,  with 
his  keen  judicial  knowledge  of  men  and  the  world, 
to  discover  our  feelings. 

In  this  very  beautiful  stream  one  autumn  I  was 
fishing  for  grayling  on  a  new  system  and  caught 
several  good  'uns.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the 
bank  an  old  angler  was  pulling  up  big  roach  one 
after  the  other.  Presently  he  came  over  to  me  and 
said,  "  I  can't  catch  the  grayling  here;  what  bait 
are  you  using?"  (I  was  not  fly  fishing.) 

I  replied,  "  I  will  tell  you  what  bait  I  am  using 
if  you  will  tell  me  your  bait." 

"  Right!  "  he  said,  "  this  is  mine,"  handing  me  a 
mixture  of  bread  and  bran. 

"  And  that  is  mine,"  I  said,  handing  him  iden- 
tically the  same  mixture. 

If  you  want  to  catch  big  Jack  you  must  fish  in 
the  winter  and  must  n't  be  afraid  of  freezing.  It's 
the  rough,  cold,  and  windy  weather  that  brings 
the  big  'uns  to  the  surface,  it  sharpens  their  appe- 
tites. That  is  the  time  to  attach  your  quarter-pound 
dead  roach  to  the  flight  of  spinning  tackle,  and 
twist  the  tail  so  that  it  spins,  but  does  n't  wobble. 
You  have  on  your  leggings  over  thick  boots,  and  the 
warmest  socks  you  possess,  and  over  your  overcoat 
it 's  a  good  tip  to  wear  a  mackintosh,  the  only  thing 

m 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

that  will  keep  out  the  cold  wind.  The  difficulty 
is  to  keep  warm.  I  could  barely  do  so,  and  having 
succeeded  at  last  in  lighting  my  pipe  would  make 
a  good  cast,  gradually  drawing  the  spinner  through 
the  water,  casting  again,  the  freezing  water  dripping 
from  the  line  on  to  my  fingers.  You  can't  wear 
gloves,  though  mittens  are  very  effective.  My 
friend  Heather  Bigg  would  say,  "  Weedon,  have 
you  got  a  match?"  "Yes!"  I  replied.  This 
necessitated  pulling  in  my  line,  and  unfastening  the 
mackintosh,  then  the  overcoat  and  then  the  under- 
coat, the  matches  invariably  being  in  the  trousers 
pockets.  I  gave  him  the  matches,  and  by  the  time 
I  got  them  back  I  was  thoroughly  cold.  However, 
as  he  had  omitted  to  bring  his  matches  with  him, 
one  could  n't  be  selfish.  Later  on  in  the  day,  "  Wee- 
don, got  a  match?"  Same  business  repeated,  with 
the  difference  that  perhaps  it 's  snowing  a  bit  now 
and  the  wind  coming  straight  from  the  East. 

The  second  day  we  fished  it  was  positively 
colder.  Heather  Bigg's  pipe  had  gone  out  as 
usual.    "  Weedon,  got  a  match?  " 

It  suddenly  occurred  to  me  he  must  have  brought 
matches  with  him  or  how  did  he  light  his  pipe,  — 
so  I  answered,  "  No  I  " 

"What  a  nuisance!"  he  replied,  and  drew  in 
his  line,  undid  his  mackintosh,  then  the  overcoat 
and  undercoat,  and  at  last  took  out  a  box  of  matches. 

"Why,"  I  said,  "  you  've  got  your  matches  with 
you." 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "but  I  didn't  want  to  catch 
cold  getting  them." 

Anglers  not  only  become  liars,  but  they  become 
112 


FISHING    STORIES 

utterly  selfish,  but  never  fools,  as  Dr.  Johnson  dubs 
them.  I  have  come  across  anglers  who  are  cads, 
snobs,  liars,  knaves,  and  even  thieves,  but  never 
fools! 

Perhaps  this  is  the  only  exception.  In  the 
early  eighties  I  was  giving  Rutland  Barring- 
ton  some  instruction  in  barbel  fishing  at  Datchet. 
The  ledger  used  for  barbel  fishing  is  a  flat 
lead  with  a  hole  through  it,  which  the  line  runs 
through  freely,  and  which  rests  on  the  ground  with 
eighteen  inches  of  fine  gut  with  a  hook  attached. 

"  Keep  quiet,"  I  said  to  Barrington,  "  don't  talk, 
and  don't  move  about  in  the  boat.  The  water  is 
horribly  clear  and  they  will  see  and  hear  everything. 
On  a  fine  day  like  this  perhaps  it  is  better  not  to 
throw  out  your  ledger,  making  a  big  splash,  rather 
drop  it  in  gently.  "There!"  I  said,  suiting  the 
action  to  the  word.  I  lifted  the  ledger  with  the 
baited  hook,  and  gently  dropped  it  over  the  side 
of  the  punt.  "  That 's  all  right,"  and  so  it  might 
have  been,  but  unfortunately  I  had  omitted  to  at- 
tach the  gut  to  the  running  line.  So  the  ledger  was 
gone  for  good,  and  I  have  never  heard  the  last  of 
it  from  the  famous  "  Pooh  Bah!" 

George  Pacey,  a  well-known  fisherman  at  Hen- 
ley, told  me  that  if  I  wanted  a  really  fine  day's 
sport,  I  might  get  it  at  the  end  of  November,  just 
when  the  floods  were  clearing  off.  He  said  it 's 
perhaps  only  for  a  day  or  so,  but  during  that  time 
the  Pike  and  Perch  are  so  ravenous  that  they  would 
snap  at  your  hand  if  it  was  hanging  over  the  side  of 
the  punt.    It 's  almost  dangerous  at  times. 

"  If  I  send  you  a  telegram  over  night  will  you 

ii3 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

come  down  by  the  six  o'clock  train  in  the  morning?  " 
he  asked. 

11  Certainly,"  I  said.  "  There  shall  be  no  busi- 
ness to  interfere  with  that  sport." 

I  was  staying  with  my  brother  at  the  time,  and 
late  one  evening  a  telegram  came  from  Pacey,  "  Pike 
and  perch  well  on."  My  brother  and  I  decided  to  go. 
We  rose  before  five  o'clock,  in  total  darkness.  It 
was  too  early  to  eat  breakfast  —  I  had  been  up  late 
at  the  club  the  night  before.  We  caught  the  six- 
thirty  train  with  great  difficulty,  and  it  was  just 
daylight  by  the  time  we  arrived  at  Henley,  where 
we  had  breakfast  and  then  went  down  to  the  boat- 
house.  There  was  the  usual  fuss  in  getting  all  the 
paraphernalia  that  coarse  fishing  involves.  (How 
different  to  the  little  tin  box  of  dry  flies,  and  the 
light  thin  rod  for  trout  fishing!) 

"Have  you  plenty  of  live  bait?"  I  asked;  the 
fisherman  replied,  "  If  five  dozen  is  enough,  then 
we  have."  I  smiled  approval  and  said,  "  Give  them 
plenty  of  fresh  water."  "  That 's  all  right,  sir." 
"  Bob,  put  the  can  in  the  river  till  we  're  ready  to 
start."  "  Give  me  hold  of  the  lunch  basket.  Thank 
you,  I  '11  put  the  beer  at  the  back."  "  We  shall  do 
well  if  we  drink  all  this  whiskey,  but  I  bet  we  '11 
wet  the  first  ten-pounder  on  getting  to  Wargrave." 
"  That  '11  take  a  good  two  hours  against  this  wind 
and  stream." 

The  preparations  took  so  long  that  it  was  past 
eleven  o'clock  before  we  started,  and  when  we  got  to 
Marsh  Lock  the  punt  pole,  the  only  one  the  man 
had  with  him,  broke,  so  we  had  to  drift  back  for 
another,  and  we  did  not  get  to  Wargrave  until 
114 


FISHING    STORIES 

nearly  two  o'clock.  So  we  had  a  good  lunch,  and 
having  lighted  a  pipe  I  announced  that  I  was  eager 
for  the  fray.  We  were  going  to  fish  with  the  live 
bait,  a  very  killing  method,  which  I  discontinued 
years  ago,  considering  it  too  cruel. 

"Just  give  me  a  lively  roach,  something  to  appeal 
to  the  palate  of  the  big  'uns,"  I  said,  "  and  one  for 
my  brother."  We  had  got  our  rods  and  tackle  and 
even  the  net  ready. 

A  lot  of  murmuring  ensued  between  the  fisher- 
man and  the  boy.  I  heard  scraps  of  conversation, 
such  as,  "Yes,  I  did!"  "No,  you  did  n't  1" 
"  Well,  look  in  the  cupboard  in  the  back."  "  No, 
there  's  nothing  in  the  well."  "  I  told  you  to  put  it 
in  the  boat."  "No,  you  didn't,  you  said  leave  it 
to  me."  At  last  I  said,  "  What 's  the  matter,  what 's 
up?" 

Then  the  fisherman  said,  "  I  'm  sorry,  but  the 
boy  's  left  the  can  with  the  live  bait  on  the  bank." 

The  usual  Jam,  Ram,  and  Cram  epithets  fol- 
lowed; in  fact  there  was  a  good  five  minutes'  row 
in  the  boat,  in  which  my  brother  and  myself  joined, 
till  at  last  Gee-Gee  said,  "  This  is  doing  no  good. 
Can't  we  put  the  boy  on  the  bank  and  let  him  run 
home  and  get  the  bait?  " 

"  That 's  no  good,"  said  the  man.  "  If  he  ran 
there  and  back  it  would  take  him  an  hour,  and  it  '11 
be  dark  by  then."  It  was  already  getting  dusk  and 
beginning  to  rain. 

"  Confound  it,"  said  I,  "  we  'd  better  change  our 
tackle  and  put  on  a  worm,  we  may  get  a  perch  that 
way." 

"  I  never  thought  of  bringing  any  worms,"  said 

"5 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

the  fisherman.  "  I  did  n't  think  we  'd  want  'em  with 
all  those  lively  dace  and  gudgeon." 

"  Bob,  give  me  a  bit  of  bread  and  I  '11  make  up 
some  paste." 

Bob  replied,  "  There  ain't  none;  you  gave  me  the 
last  bit,  which  I  ate  with  the  cheese." 

"  Curse!  "  I  shouted,  "what  are  we  going  to  do?  " 
And  the  reply  from  the  fisherman  finished  all  the 
patience  we  had  left. 

He  said,  "  One  minute,  gentlemen,  when  the  fish 
are  on  the  feed,  as  they  are  now,  they  '11  take  the 
naked  hook." 

"What!"  we  ejaculated. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  and  PREFER  it!  !  I " 

I  shouted,  "  Pull  up  the  d d  rye  pecks  and 

get  home."  And  thus  ended  the  great  day's  sport! 
Since  that  day  I  have  never  left  anything  to  a  fisher- 
man or  a  boy  or  anybody,  but  have  always  seen  to 
everything  myself  before  starting.  I  think  this 
applies  to  every  enterprise  if  you  want  to  succeed 
in  it. 

I  am  not  going  to  relate  the  big  catches  I  have 
made,  or  my  successes  as  an  angler,  and  I  have  been 
most  successful,  but  merely  confine  myself  to  a  few, 
I  hope,  amusing  adventures. 

When  I  was  acting  at  the  Court  Theatre  in  "  Aunt 
Jack,"  which  ran  all  through  the  summer,  I  shared 
rooms  at  Datchet  with  Eric  Lewis,  who  was  also 
playing  in  it.  We  could  get  down  by  the  last  train. 
Forbes  Dawson,  the  actor  (who,  in  company  with 
Charles  Glenney,  was  living  at  Teddington),  a  very 
cheery,  jolly  chap,  also  very  keen  on  fishing,  invited 
me  to  "  a  fishery"  (he  called  it)  at  that  place.  I 
116 


FISHING    STORIES 

accepted  the  invitation  and  called  for  him  at  his 
little  house  in  the  main  street  there.  He  was  ready 
to  start.  "  Do  we  take  a  train?"  I  said.  "No!  "he 
answered.  "  Carriage?  "  I  asked.  "  No,  it 's  just  a 
short  distance."  I  said,  "  We  must  get  out  of  the 
town,  surely?  "  "  Oh,  no,"  he  said,  "  here  we  are." 
After  a  short  walk  he  pushed  open  a  green  door  set 
in  a  brick  wall,  and  I  found  we  were  in  the  garden 
belonging  to  a  fairly  big  stucco  residence. 

The  Gardener  met  us,  and  shook  hands  with 
Forbes  Dawson,  calling  him  "  old  man."  Dawson 
always  had  a  keen  sense  of  humour. 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Grossmith?  I  should  like  to  go  to 
the  theatre  one  night  if  you  will  give  me  some 
tickets,"  he  said.  I  realized  we  were  here  as  the 
invited  guests  of  the  Gardener,  who  said  to  Dawson 
he  rather  wished  he  had  come  some  other  time  as 
it  was  "  a  bit  risky  to-day." 

"  Come  along,"  said  Forbes  in  true  light-comedy 
style,  "  let 's  get  to  work." 

We  were  going  to  fish  in  an  ornamental  pond 
about  twice  the  width  of  an  ordinary  dining-room 
and  ten  times  as  long.  The  water  was  a  dark  muddy 
brown  and  about  two  feet  deep.  I  felt  absolutely 
humiliated,  but  being  the  guest  of  Dawson  (or 
the  Gardener)  I  did  n't  like  to  look  the  gift  horse 
in  the  mouth  and  commenced  fishing.  Dawson  had 
already  got  to  work.  Down  went  his  float  almost  at 
once,  and  out  came  a  two-pound  barbel.  "  My  good- 
ness! "  I  said,  "  I  should  n't  have  thought  it."  Then 
my  float  commenced  to  move  and  stopped  again. 
Nothing  happened  for  about  ten  minutes. 

Then  Dawson  shouted,  "  Here,  I  shall  want  a 

117 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

net  for  this,  I  've  got  hold  of  a  four-pound  bream." 
At  the  same  time  I  heard  the  wheels  of  a  carriage 
coming  up  the  drive. 

"  I  've  got  him,"  shouted  Dawson  most  excitedly, 
at  the  same  time  landing  a  big,  splashing  bream  on 
the  grass.  He  shouted  to  the  Gardener,  who  was 
running  towards  us,  "  What  price  this,  my  boy, 
what  price  this?  " 

"  No  price  at  all,  you  fool!  "  was  the  reply.  "  I 
told  you  so,  it's  the  Colonel  I  Out  you  go,  quick, 
both  of  you  I"  at  the  same  time  throwing  the  fish 
back  in  the  water,  and  seizing  the  rod  out  of  my 
hand. 

"  Come  on,  Weedon,  this  way,"  said  Forbes,  and 
I  found  myself  in  the  hateful  position  of  having  to 
scuttle  out  of  the  grounds  as  fast  as  my  legs  would 
carry  me,  like  a  common  thief  who  had  been  steal- 
ing apples!  —  I  have  since  thought  that  Glenney 
had  already  "  been  there." 

A  well-known  fisherman  who  had  a  couple  of 
punts  for  hire  at  Datchet  whom  I  used  to  fish 
a  good  deal  with,  lost  his  wife,  of  whom  he  was 
very  fond,  and  for  a  time  he  seemed  inconsolable 
and  depressed.  A  few  months  later  I  heard  he 
was  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  cook  at  one  of  the 
houses  on  the  banks  of  the  river.  And  the  next  time 
I  fished  with  him  he  looked  most  cheerful,  and  was 
well  dressed  and  turned  out  better  than  I  had  ever 
seen  him  before.  He  at  once  opened  the  subject  of 
his  engagement  and  told  me  of  the  many  good 
qualities  of  his  fiancee,  among  others  that  she  made 
splendid  cakes. 

He  said  he  hoped  to  get  married  in  a  couple  of 
118 


FISHING    STORIES 

weeks,  but  was  afraid  he  might  have  to  wait  a 
month. 

I  told  him  there  was  no  hurry,  and  it  was  always 
a  wise  thing  to  be  quite  sure  of  your  choice. 

He  replied  there  was  n't  the  slightest  doubt  about 
that;  in  fact,  he  said,  "  I  like  her  so  much  that  I  often 
thank  the  Lord  that  he  was  pleased  to  take  my  poor 
dear  wife." 

To  my  mind  the  most  skilful,  artistic,  and  fasci- 
nating form  of  fishing  is  fishing  for  trout  with  a 
dry  fly.  I  have  had  many  pleasant  and  successful 
days  employing  this  method  of  angling. 

On  one  occasion,  at  the  invitation  of  a  well-known 
City  Solicitor,  I  journeyed  to  some  stream  about 
twenty  miles  from  Birmingham,  where  we  had  to 
spend  the  evening  at  a  very  primitive  inn.  My  host 
had  also  invited  another  guest,  a  famous  "  outside 
broker,"  who  having  amassed  a  huge  fortune  for 
himself  out  of  a  highly  speculative  business,  was 
now  anxious  to  spend  his  spare  time  in  pursuing 
the  "  Gentle  Art." 

We  were  on  the  war  path  early  the  following 
morning,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  my  host  had 
secured  a  two-pounder;  I  say  "  secured  "  because  I 
could  hardly  call  his  method  of  capture  "  angling." 
He  was  not  throwing  a  fly,  and  indeed  such  a  thing 
would  have  been  impossible  with  the  rod  he  was 
handling;  it  was  a  short,  stiff  Jack  rod,  such  as  one 
sees  nowadays  on  the  pier  at  Deal  (used  by  such  en- 
thusiastic cod  fishers  as  Hyde  and  his  son  Kenneth), 
and  his  tackle  would  have  held  a  Conger,  and  with  a 
live  May  fly  (they  were  just "  up  "  then) ,  and  hiding 
behind  a  bush  he  was  dabbing  or  dipping  it  in  a 

119 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

pool  where  he  had  seen  a  fish.  Sometimes  he  had 
a  worm  on,  and  sometimes,  I  regret  to  say,  a  flight 
of  hooks  with  no  bait  attached,  jerking  suddenly 
and  foul  hooking  a  fish.  He  caught  several  this  way. 
It  was  the  nearest  thing  to  poaching  I  have  ever 
seen. 

I  was  thrashing  the  stream  in  the  legitimate  way, 
and  my  host's  moneyed  guest  was  trying  to  do 
likewise.  I  saw  the  difficulties  he  was  in,  so  prof- 
fered a  little  instruction.  And  he  confessed  to  me 
he  had  scarcely  ever  thrown  a  fly  before.  He 
need  n't  have  told  me  this.  It  was  obvious.  He 
could  n't  work  the  fly  a  yard,  so  I  put  down  my  own 
rod  and  handled  his  very  fine  expensive  one  and 
showed  him  how  to  work  the  fly  out,  and  after  I 
had  done  it  several  times  he  tried  and  in  about 
twenty  minutes  he  not  only  got  the  fly  out  but,  to 
his  great  delight,  he  succeeded  in  landing  a  small 
fish.  He  confided  in  me  that  he  was  tired  of  making 
money,  but  this  little  success  in  the  "  Gentle  Art " 
was  "  more  to  him  than  a  thousand  pounds!  " 

After  a  jolly  dinner  at  Birmingham,  where  we 
broke  the  journey  for  an  hour,  we  returned  to  town, 
and  my  host  and  the  financier  talked  rapidly  to- 
gether for  some  time.  I  gathered  that  the  broker 
had  some  business  trouble  and  he  was  instructing 
his  lawyer  for  his  defence.  Later  on,  when  they 
had  finished  their  conversation,  my  host  went  to 
sleep  and  I  talked  to  my  pupil  of  the  Piscatorial 
Art.  He  told  me  he  thought  of  renting  a  trout 
stream  and  wished  for  my  advice,  which  I  gave 
him;  then  I  turned  the  conversation  to  finance.  I 
thought  to  myself,  "  This  gentleman  might  be  able 
1 20 


FISHING    STORIES 

to  give  me  some  sound  tip ;  and  instead  of  content- 
ing myself  with  three  or  four  per  cent  for  the 
little  money  I  might  save,  I  might  invest  it  on 
his  block  A  and  B  principle  and  DOUBLE  the  capital 
(should  I  ever  be  free  of  debt  again,)  according  to 
the  promising  announcement  I  had  seen  advertised 
by  a  famous  firm.  So  I  suggested  that  I  should  look 
him  up  one  morning  and  learn  something  about  it 
His  reply  staggered  me: 

"No,  you  lunch  with  me,  my  lad,  when  you're 
my  way  and  we  will  have  a  bottle  of  the  best  and  a 
chat  about  fishing.  You  've  been  very  good  to  me," 
he  continued,  "  you  Ve  taught  me  to  throw  a  fly  and 
put  me  on  the  right  road.  And  I  'm  much  obliged 
to  you  and,  in  return  for  your  kindness,  I  'm  going 
to  put  you  on  the  right  road.  Don't  you  invest  any 
of  your  money  in  our  business.  Stick  to  what 
you  've  got  and  leave  my  system  alone." 

I  have  had  excellent  trout  fishing  at  Tilling- 
bourne  Park,  in  company  with  the  late  Frank  Holl; 
also  at  Luton  Hoo  Park,  which  abounds  with  big 
Jack;  also  at  the  late  Colonel  Goodlake's  at  Ux- 
bridge,  where  the  river  is  alive  with  trout;  also  in 
the  Lambourn  at  Newbury  and  on  Loch  Corrib. 
Loch  Conn  contains  enormous  Pike,  thirty  and  forty 
pounders.  By  the  way,  they  are  always  called  Pike 
in  Ireland  and  Jack  in  England. 

While  fishing  on  Loch  Corrib,  my  friend  Willie 
Stone  caught  one  of  twenty-five  pounds,  and  I  HELD 
one  of  nearly  forty  pounds,  for  fully  ten  minutes, 
but  the  water  being  so  deep  (over  sixty  feet)  and 
there  being  so  many  currents,  the  line  slacked  for  a 
few  minutes  and  the  fish  was  off.     I  know  of  no 

121 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

sensation  so  hatefully  disappointing,  after  a  tremen- 
dous run,  and  the  sharp  tugs  nearly  pulling  the  rod 
out  of  your  hand,  suddenly  to  find  it  slack!  For  the 
moment  everything  in  life  has  gone,  and  as  you 
stand  holding  your  rod,  with  a  long,  loose  line  hang- 
ing in  the  water,  you  feel  such  an  ass.  And  it 
does  n't  make  things  better  when  your  friends 
suggest  that  you  should  have  kept  your  rod  more 
upright  or  you  did  n't  keep  your  line  sufficiently 
taut.  The  fish  has  gone  and  that 's  enough,  and 
it  does  n't  improve  matters  when  your  friend  irri- 
tates you  still  further  by  saying,  "  Never  mind,  old 
chap,  console  yourself  by  thinking  that  what  is 
your  loss  is  the  fish's  gain." 


122 


CHAPTER  X 

Bargain  Hunting.    Antique  Furniture 

TWENTY-FIVE  to  thirty  years  ago,  pick- 
ing up  old  glass,  china,  prints,  and 
furniture  was  confined  to  a  few  artists 
and  connoisseurs,  who  bought  them  be- 
cause they  knew  they  were  picturesque  and  in  good 
taste  or  for  their  quaintness.  They  did  n't  buy  them 
because  it  was  the  fashion ;  it  was  n't  fashionable 
then.  They  didn't  buy  them  from  a  commercial 
point  of  view,  to  watch  the  rise  in  the  market,  and 
then  sell.  They  simply  bought  them  because  they 
appealed  to  their  artistic  taste  and  nothing  more. 
They  had  the  courage  of  their  opinions,  although 
they  were  regarded  by  the  majority  of  people  as 
"  cranks."  Oh!  don't  I  know  that  self-satisfied  grin 
on  the  faces  of  the  ignorant  and  the  unenlightened, 
who  regard  you  as  a  crank  and  feel  sorry  for  you, 
and  years  afterwards  purchase  copies  of  the  class 
of  furniture  they  have  ridiculed  and  of  which  you 
own  the  original? 

I  commenced  to  "  pick  up  "  very  early.  I  have 
bought  beautiful  pairs  of  brass  candlesticks  from 
rag  shops,  when,  on  asking  the  price  of  the  shop- 
keeper, he  would  put  them  in  the  scales  and  weigh 
them  and  charge  me  for  the  price  of  old  brass  — 
about  sixpence  a  pound.    I  have  bought  numerous 

123 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

old  candlesticks,  knockers,  and  a  beautiful  old 
candle  chandelier  at  Olney  in  Buckinghamshire. 
The  local  ironmonger  bought  all  the  candle  chande- 
liers when  they  introduced  gas  into  the  church,  and 
I  happened  to  be  painting  at  Olney  about  five  years 
after  he  secured  them.  He  told  me  he  had  great 
difficulty  in  disposing  of  them,  and  was  glad 
to  get  rid  of  the  last,  as  they  took  up  so  much 
room  in  the  cellar.  I  don't  know  where  you  can 
buy  old  brass  candle  chandeliers  at  sixpence  a 
pound  now. 

How  changed  it  all  is!  Every  town  you  go  to 
now  contains  "  Ye  antique  shoppe,"  and  when  you 
see  that  written  up,  you  may  be  perfectly  sure  it 
will  be  filled  with  modern  brass  from  Holland,  and 
equally  modern  badly  stippled  miniatures  from 
Birmingham;  Nelson  and  Napoleon  and  some 
famous  beauties  with  white  wigs;  over  embell- 
ished snuff-boxes,  and  a  complete  set  of  Wheatley's 
"  Cries  of  London  "  (from  Germany),  some  excep- 
tionally black  "  oak  settees  "  and  chairs  with  the 
date  carved  on  them  so  that  there  can  be  no  doubt 
of  the  period;  thickly  carved  bogus  Chippendale 
chairs,  also  very  black  and  shiny,  and  in  the  corner 
a  palpably  modern  grandfather's  clock,  with  mov- 
able sun  and  moon  effects;  a  dozen  old  English 
wineglasses,  very  tall  and  out  of  proportion,  with 
the  ribbon  twist  of  pink  or  white  down  the  stem, 
fresh  from  Stourbridge,  and  a  couple  of  very  old 
sundials  on  stone  supports  from  Shaftesbury  Avenue 
(fourth  floor),  also  the  latest  copies  of  Lustre,  Jugs 
and  Tea-sets  from  Stafford  and  Shrewsbury. 

Thank  goodness,  there  were  none  of  these  shops 
124 


BARGAIN    HUNTING 


BARGAIN    HUNTING 

when  I  used  to  "  pick  up  "  bargains.  It  was  the 
ordinary  broker's  shop  with  the  old  and  the  new 
mixed,  and  as  the  wealthy  and  so-called  smart  set 
or  "  carriage  folk  "  were  not  buying,  we  had  it  all 
our  own  way,  or  very  nearly  so  —  not  quite  all  our 
own  way,  because  we  had  n't  the  money  to  buy  them, 
cheap  as  they  were. 

It  is  a  most  curious  fact,  until  your  eyes  become 
educated,  how  you  miss  seeing  things.  You  may 
walk  down  a  back  street  in  Bloomsbury  or  Westmin- 
ster and  notice  nothing  in  the  houses ;  you  notice  the 
unwashed  children  playing  in  the  roads  and  run- 
ning into  the  doorway  of  a  rather  poor-looking 
house,  but  you  don't  notice  that  doorway.  But  later, 
when  you  become  interested  in  old  houses  and  pass 
down  that  same  street,  you  stop  at  that  doorway,  and 
rave  over  the  grandeur  of  the  proportion,  and  fine 
composition  of  the  design  round  the  architrave  of 
the  door,  and  see  many  beauties  in  this  early  Georg- 
ian house.  So  it  is  that  thousands  of  wealthy 
people  passed  the  little  shops  that  contained  the 
finest  specimens  of  old  furniture,  and  would  n't 
have  purchased  anything  at  any  price.  They  did  n't 
see  them. 

I  had  my  eyes  first  opened  by  Mr.  Brooks,  whom 
I  have  already  alluded  to,  who  occupied  the  front 
room  in  Fitzroy  Street,  where  I  had  my  first  studio. 
He  had  a  few  Chippendale  and  Hepplewhite  chairs 
which  he  raved  over,  and  enlightened  me  on  the  sub- 
ject, so  that  when  I  went  to  Olney  to  paint  with  my 
friend  C.  E.  Marshall  I  was  on  the  "  look  out." 
Marshall  was  n't  sympathetic  with  me  about  ma- 
hogany furniture,  it  was  n't  old  enough  for  him,  he 

125 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

was  for  old,  very  old  oak,  and  furnished  his  studio 
with  some  of  that  ancient  stuff  from  Wardour  Street, 
and  a  servant,  in  her  eagerness  to  clean  and  polish 
one  of  the  cupboards,  polished  off  its  antiquity, 
and  left  the  light-coloured  pitch  pine  underneath. 

At  Olney  I  was  painting  a  little  picture  of  a  girl 
lace-making,  sitting  in  front  of  an  open  fire, 
and  her  brother,  who  had  been  chopping  wood 
in  the  garden,  came  in  with  a  long  piece  of 
carved  mahogany  in  his  hand,  which  he  was  going 
to  put  on  the  fire.  I  took  it  from  him  and  saw  it 
was  the  arm  of  an  old  chair.  "Where  is  the  rest 
of  this?"  I  said. 

"  In  the  garden,"  he  replied.  "  I'm  just  going  to 
chop  it  up." 

"No,  you  don't,"  I  said;  "bring  the  rest  in," 
which  he  did,  and  produced  a  finely  carved  Chip- 
pendale armchair  in  quite  good  condition,  minus 
the  seat,  which  had  been  stuffed  with  horsehair  and 
had  broken  away  from  the  brass  nails.  I  had  great 
difficulty  in  persuading  the  people  to  let  me  buy  it 
for  seven  shillings.  They  said  it  was  worth  nothing, 
and  the  only  offer  they  had  had  was  sixpence,  and 
as  I  had,  so  they  said,  been  so  good  to  them  in  many 
ways  they  wanted  to  give  it  to  me.  This,  of  course, 
I  declined  and  paid  them  seven  shillings,  which 
they  most  reluctantly  accepted,  saying  they  were 
robbing  me.  The  chair  cost  about  £2  to  do  up,  and 
I  assure  you  it 's  worth  a  lot  more  than  £2  to-day. 

In  those  days  old  furniture  was  called  "  old 
rubbish,"  that 's  what  we  asked  for  of  a  farmer  or 
broker.  "We  are  artists,  have  you  got  any  old 
rubbishy  chairs  or  tables  with  carving  on  them  that 
126 


BARGAIN    HUNTING 

you  want  to  sell?  "  If  they  had  n't  chopped  them 
up  for  firewood,  they  looked  about  and  frequently 
brought  something  from  the  back  yard  or  out  of 
the  wood  cellar.  I  don't  say  they  were  the  speci- 
mens that  came  out  of  palaces,  certainly  not.  The 
class  of  stuff  that  generally  comes  from  a  palace 
finds  its  way  back  to  another  palace  of  modern  build. 

While  staying  at  Olney,  my  friend  Marshall  and 
I  got  a  tip  that  a  grocer  at  Lavendon  had  a  lot  of  old 
rubbish  in  a  loft,  so  we  got  Mr.  Penny,  the  land- 
lord of  the  cottage  we  were  staying  at,  to  charter  a 
horse  and  cart,  and  we  started  off  one  beautiful 
evening  in  May  on  a  most  enjoyable  jaunt. 

The  seating  accommodation  in  the  cart  was  very 
inconvenient  until  I  picked  up  an  old  chair  at  a 
wayside  Inn,  which,  having  paid  a  few  shillings 
for,  I  placed  in  the  cart  and  sat  on. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  grocer's  —  who  was  also 
a  broker  in  the  neighbourhood,  in  a  small  way  — 
Marshall  commandeered  an  oak  settee,  and  I  spotted 
an  oak  bureau  at  the  back  of  the  shop  with  an  inlaid 
star  on  it.  There  was  only  candlelight  in  the  shop, 
but  the  light  was  quite  good  enough  for  me  to  offer 
twenty-five  shillings  for  that  bureau,  which  was 
readily  accepted.  So  we  pushed  it  up  into  the  cart. 
The  grocer  said  he  was  too  busy  himself  (he  selling 
pennyworths  of  candles)  to  come  with  us,  but  if  we 
liked  to  go  out  in  the  yard  and  had  no  objection  to 
climb  a  ladder,  there  was  a  lot  more  rubbish  of 
sorts  in  the  loft  of  the  barn.  Did  n't  we  rush  for  it! 
Marshall  got  up  the  ladder  first,  I  after  him,  and 
he  nearly  fell  backwards  as  a  lot  of  fowls  flew  out 
in  his  face.    We  got  inside,  followed  by  Mr.  Penny 

127 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

our  landlord,  who  had  struck  a  match  and  lighted 
a  candle. 

"  Look  there,"  I  said,  "  half  a  dozen  Chippendale 
chairs,  carved  backs  and  fluted  legs."  I  agreed  that 
Marshall  ought  to  have  first  offer  of  these,  as  I 
had  collared  the  chair  from  the  public  house  and 
the  bureau.  So  we  got  them  down  the  ladder,  but 
not  before  I  had  spotted  a  wheat  pattern  Hepple- 
white  divan  chair  for  a  sovereign.  What  sport 
finer  than  big  game  shooting!  I  think  Marshall 
got  the  chairs  for  eight  pounds  (now  they  are  worth 
£15  apiece).  We  put  them  all  in  the  cart  and 
eventually  got  home,  Marshall  and  myself  having 
to  walk  nearly  all  the  way,  as  the  cart  was  so 
crowded.  We  stopped  at  a  lonely  Inn,  where  our 
landlord  prophesied  we  should  most  likely  meet  an 
old  farmer  he  knew  who  had  several  carved 
"  chesties." 

Sure  enough,  there  was  the  farmer,  seated  in 
an  old  recessed  fireplace,  smoking  a  long  clay  pipe. 
So,  after  our  landlord  had  greeted  him  in  the  usual 
manner,  he  introduced  us  to  him  by  saying,  "  These 
two  gentlemen  are  artists  and  would  like  to  see  some 
of  your  old  rubbish  up  at  the  farm." 

"What  rubbish?"  the  old  farmer  sulkily 
answered. 

"  Why,"  continued  Mr.  Penny,  "  your  old  carved 
tables  and  old  l  chesties ' ;  these  gentlemen  would 
like  to  buy  them  to  paint,  and  afterwards  we  could 
chop  'em  up  for  firewood  if  they  took  up  too  much 
room." 

The  old  farmer  looked  very  steadily  at  our  land- 
lord and  answered  him  very  suspiciously.  "You 
128 


BARGAIN    HUNTING 

don't  want  to  chop  up  those  old  carved  '  chesties,' 
Mr.  Penny!    You  don't  want  'em  to  chop  up!" 

Penny,  fairly  equal  to  the  occasion,  said,  "  Maybe 
we  might  chop  'em  up  or  maybe  we  might  n't,  but 
that  old  rubbish  is  only  fit  to  chop  up,  and  if  these 
gentlemen  bought  them  for  the  price  of  firewood, 
it  would  go  towards  you're  buying  some  nice  new, 
useful  furniture." 

The  old  farmer,  getting  very  irritated,  snapped 
out,  "  You  don't  want  to  buy  my  old  carved 
'chesties'  to  chop  up,  and  you  know  they're  not 
rubbish;  you  know  better  than  that,  Mr.  Penny, 
anyway  these  gentlemen  do,  and  when  you  say  you 
want  to  buy  'em  for  chopping  up  or  painting  'em, 
you're  lying,  that's  what  you're  a-doing!  You're 
lying!  !  !" 

Mr.  Penny  tried  to  change  the  subject  by  suggest- 
ing that  the  farmer  should  have  a  drink  with  him, 
but  the  old  man  declined  his  offer,  saying  he  did  n't 
wish  to  drink  with  a  liar  I 

It  was  very  hard  on  our  landlord,  for  although 
he  was  n't  prompted  by  us,  he  was  doing  his  best 
entirely  on  our  account. 

The  truth  always  pays  best  in  the  long  run,  even 
with  bargaining.  So  I  confessed  to  the  farmer  that 
we  did  not  want  to  persuade  him  to  sell  his  carved 
"  chesties  "  for  the  purpose  of  "  chopping  up,"  but 
it  was  perfectly  true  we  painted  old  things  as  well 
as  young,  though  in  the  living  model  we  preferred 
them  young.  But  we  loved  the  old  (in  furniture) 
better  than  the  new,  and  whatever  Mr.  Penny  had 
said  which  had  caused  annoyance,  I  felt  that  we 
were  entirely  to  blame,  as  he  was  only  trying  to  do 

129 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

us  a  service.  Commissions  then  were  as  unknown 
to  us  as  they  were  to  our  landlord,  and  I  apologised 
for  having  been  indirectly  the  cause  of  hurting  the 
farmer's  feelings,  and  at  last  succeeded  in  pouring 
oil  (fusil  oil,  the  whiskey  was  near)  on  the  troubled 
waters. 

So  we  buried  the  hatchet  and  accompanied  the 
farmer  across  half  a  mile  of  meadow  to  his  fifteenth- 
century  house,  where  we  saw  carved  oak  furniture 
which,  if  put  up  at  Christie's,  would  make  Part- 
ridge or  Duveen  jump  into  three  figures  at  the  first 
bid. 

The  dear  old  farmer  was  most  hospitable,  but  I 
wished  later  he  had  conducted  us  back  to  the 
inn,  for,  not  knowing  the  way,  unfortunately  we 
were  unaware  there  were  any  ditches  until  we  were 
scrambling  out  with  curses  loud  and  deep.  However 
we  eventually  arrived  home  with  our  bargains  safe 
and  sound. 

I  have  mentioned  a  few  bargains  we  secured,  but 
not  the  many  we  missed.  I  can  never  forget  the 
really  fine  things  we  saw  and  knew  little  or  nothing 
about,  things  that  would  now  fetch  twenty,  thirty, 
or  fifty  times  the  amount  I  was  asked  then,  but  my 
means  were  so  limited,  and  I  had  only  a  few  pounds 
to  spare,  and  sometimes  not  that.  I  remember  Chip- 
pendale tables  and  magnificently  carved  mirrors  at 
dealers'  shops  that  one  could  have  purchased  for 
seven  or  eight  pounds  which  are  almost  priceless 
now,  and  I  am  bound  to  say  I  then  thought  the  price 
asked  was  very  high.  I  was  only  in  my  infancy  as 
a  collector  and  knew  very  little,  —  I  purchased 
by  instinct. 
130 


BARGAIN    HUNTING 

I  think  it  was  in  about  '82  that  I  was  painting  at 
Lymington  in  Hampshire,  when  the  contents  of  a 
magnificent  old  house,  Wallhampton,  belonging  to 
Lady  Paul  Burrard,  had  been  sold,  and  a  small 
dealer  in  the  main  street  of  Lymington  had  pur- 
chased a  few  pieces  of  furniture,  which  he  evidently 
could  n't  sell.  The  shop  contained  chiefly  bedding 
and  mattresses.  Some  wax  fruit  under  glass  shades, 
a  bow  and  some  arrows,  a  harp,  and  a  Japanned 
coal  scuttle,  with  a  painting  of  grapes  on  one  side, 
and  a  view  of  the  Tower  of  London  on  the  other, 
several  Windsor  chairs,  a  deal  table,  and  kitchen 
utensils  were  outside  the  shop  on  the  pavement,  and 
among  this  poor-looking  stuff  was  a  very  fine  Chip- 
pendale armchair  with  claw  and  ball  feet  of  very 
fine  proportions. 

I  don't  know  how  long  it  had  been  there  before 
I  came,  but  I  had  looked  at  it  every  day  for  a  month, 
but  could  n't  afford  the  price  which  the  dealer 
asked,  namely,  three  pounds  ten  shillings!  It 
came  from  Wallhampton  and  was  in  magnificent 
condition,  not  a  chip  anywhere. 

The  neighbourhood  of  Lymington,  as  most  people 
know,  abounds  with  fine  estates,  and  as  I  walked, 
with  my  two  canvases  together,  face  to  face,  and 
small  fold-up  easel  under  my  arm,  I  met  carriage 
after  carriage  occupied  by  jolly,  happy-looking 
people,  a  few  of  whom  I  knew  slightly,  and  returned 
a  bow  as  well  as  I  could  with  both  hands  full,  but 
the  majority  I  did  n't  know,  except  perhaps  by 
name.  These  well-to-do  people  passed  that  chair 
daily  and  saw  it,  but  there  was  not  one  who  wished 
to  possess  it.    The  day  before  I  left  Lymington  I 

131 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

heard  that  I  had  had  the  good  luck  to  sell  a  picture 
at  one  of  the  Exhibitions  for  ten  pounds,  and  I 
indulged  in  the  extravagant  delight  of  buying  that 
chair,  which  a  dealer  some  ten  years  ago  offered 
me  seventy  pounds  for,  and  it  has  recently  been 
valued  at  a  much  higher  figure. 

I  picked  up  many  a  good  thing  for  years  after 
this,  but  about  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  ago  the 
mad  rush  commenced,  and  during  the  last  seven 
or  eight  years  everyone  seems  to  be  trying  to  get  a 
11  bit  of  the  old,"  and  as  the  majority  have  not  studied 
the  subject,  they  get  taken  in. 

The  year  following  my  lucky  purchase  at  Lym- 
ington  a  dealer  took  me  to  see  some  chairs  that  an 
old  lady  had  had  in  her  family  for  one  hundred 
years;  they  were  very  good,  but  nothing  out  of  the 
way,  and  the  old  lady  did  n't  wish  to  sell  them, 
she  said  she  hoped  they  would  last  out  her  life- 
time. That  was  quite  sufficient  for  me,  and  nothing 
would  have  induced  me  to  persuade  her  to  part 
with  them;  that  kind  of  bargaining  I  regard  as 
cruel  and  selfish. 

But  the  dealer  had  no  conscience;  he  knew  I  was 
prepared  to  pay  a  decent  price,  for  in  that  year,  '83, 
I  was  a  bit  better  off  —  not  much  —  and  was  also 
badly  bitten  with  the  craze.  He  almost  threatened 
the  old  lady.  I  apologised  for  his  behaviour  and  my 
intrusion,  and  in  quite  my  best  style  wished  her  good 
afternoon. 

The  dealer  was  very  much  annoyed,  and  kept  on 
saying,  "What  does  it  matter  what  she  sits  on?    I 
can  let  her  have  something  far  more  comfortable 
than  them,"  and  so  on. 
132 


BARGAIN    HUNTING 

I  replied,  "  She  doesn't  wish  to  sell  and  that  is 
sufficient." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  dealer,  "  I  'm  bound  to 
get  'em;  she'll  never  go  through  another  winter 
with  a  cough  like  that,  and  then  they  're  mine  and 
I  '11  let  you  know  at  once.  I  'm  bound  to  have 
'em." 

I  went  to  Lymington  two  years  after  and  was  glad 
to  hear  the  old  lady  was  in  better  health  than  she 
had  been  for  some  time,  but  the  dealer,  alas,  had 
been  dead  for  more  than  a  year. 

When  I  was  at  Whitby  in  '93,  I  went  into  an  old 
shop  where  at  one  time  very  fine  things  could  be 
found,  but  the  rush  had  already  commenced  and 
the  demand  was  greater  than  the  supply,  which  was 
sometimes  being  made  in  the  winter  months  —  I 
mean  the  supply. 

There  were  two  ladies  in  the  shop  —  who  were 
staying  at  the  Vicarage  —  who  seemed  rather  keen 
on  an  oak  cabinet.  I  spotted  it,  and  "  gave  it  a  miss  " 
at  once.  I  saw  it  was  a  "  wrong  'un,"  and  had  no 
interest  in  it,  my  attention  being  directed  towards 
a  small  mahogany  cupboard  in  the  corner  of  the 
shop,  and  although  some  distance  from  these  ladies 
it  was  impossible  not  to  hear  their  conversation. 

One  said  to  the  other,  "  He  wants  twenty  pounds 
for  it;  of  course  these  people  don't  know  the  value, 
dear,  it 's  worth  sixty  pounds  at  least." 

I  strolled  over  towards  the  cabinet,  and  one  of 
the  ladies  said  to  me,  thinking  I  wanted  it,  "  That 's 
sold,  sir,  —  that  is  —  I  —  er  —  asked  first,  you 
know,  we  've  got  the  refusal." 

"  Quite  so,  madam,"  I  replied,  "  /  don't  want  it." 

133 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

The  dealer  entering  the  shop  at  that  moment, 
the  lady  said,  "  I  '11  have  that  old  cabinet.  Let 's 
see,  how  much  did  you  say  it  was,  twenty 
pounds?  That 's  rather  too  much!  Won't  you  take 
eighteen?  " 

"  No,   madam,"   he   replied,   unmoved,   "  the 
price  is  twenty  pounds." 

"  Very  well,  thank  you,"  as  she  paid  the  money, 
"  please  send  it  up  to  the  Vicarage.  I'm  staying 
there.    Good  morning." 

When  they  had  gone  I  said  to  the  dealer,  "  That 's 
not  quite  cricket,  you  know,  that  cabinet  is  not  an 
old  piece." 

"/  never  said  it  was,"  he  replied;  "  she  said  it 
was  old,  I  did  n't  say  it  was,  and  as  she  thinks  she 
knows  a  good  deal  more  about  antique  furniture 
than  I  do,  it 's  not  my  place  to  put  her  right.  We  're 
not  here  to  teach  people.  She  thinks  it 's  worth 
double  the  price  she  has  paid,  therefore  she  's  trying 
to  get  the  better  of  me,  and  she  thinks  she  has 
succeeded." 

"  There  's  something  in  what  you  say,"  I  replied, 
"  but  the  poor  lady  is  now  landed  with  a  brand-new 
antique." 

"  And  it 's  not  so  new  as  that,  sir,"  he  answered, 
and  calling  out  to  a  boy  in  a  workshop  at  the  back, 
said,  "  How  old  is  the  Tudor  Cabinet,  the  one  we 
put  together  out  of  the  chests?  " 

The  reply  came,  "  We  've  had  it  for  a  long  time, 
we  made  that  the  Christmas  before  last." 

"  There  you  are,"  he  said  with  a  grin.  "  It's  not 
so  very  brand  new,  is  it?  " 

At  the  present  time  to  my  knowledge  Commer- 
134 


BARGAIN    HUNTING 

cial  Travellers  call  at  "  Ye  Antique  Shoppes  "  with 
their  samples  of  newly  made  "  old  "  goods  and  I 
know  of  several  old  fashioned  behind-the-times  but 
honest  dealers  who  will  not  buy  the  stuff  which  is 
turned  out  by  the  ton  to  delude  the  public. 


135 


CHAPTER   XI 

"  Fast  "  Life  in  London  in  the  Eighties 
and  Nineties 

Oh,  I  was  like  that  when  a  lad, 

A  shocking  young  scamp  of  a  Rover: 

I  behaved  like  a  regular  — 

Now  that  sort  of  thing  is  all  over. 

Old  Ballad. 

I  FREQUENTLY  observe  that  whenever 
one's  friends  go  to  a  place  of  entertainment, 
or  otherwise,  that  is  not  generally  considered 
reputable,  they  invariably  say  they  were 
taken  there.  They  seldom  have  the  honesty  to 
admit  that  they  had  a  desire  for  low  company  or  a 
wish  to  witness  a  degrading  performance,  so  they 
say  they  were  "  taken  there." 

In  this  year  of  grace,  191 2,  we  are  supposed,  as 
a  nation,  to  have  improved  in  our  tastes  since  the 
eighties. 

Have  we?  To-day  we  can  witness  at  our  leading 
Music  Halls  a  girl  holding  by  her  teeth  a  trapeze 
from  which  hangs  another  woman.  We  can  see 
splendid  lions  and  tigers  tortured  into  a  state  of 
partial  submission  and  working  a  see-saw,  and  we 
can  also  see  them  brutally  hit  if  they  fail  or  disobey 
their  trainer.  We  are  invited  to  applaud  a  company 
of  sea-lions  giving  a  marvellous  juggling  entertain- 
ment on  a  dry  and  dusty  stage,  the  poor  creatures 
136 


"FAST"    LIFE    IN    LONDON 

being  in  such  a  ravenous  condition  the  while  that 
their  owners  and  trainers  are  obliged  to  feed  them 
during  and  previous  to  each  item  of  their  turn. 
We  can  see  a  couple  of  tired  pugilists  who  are  paid 
a  large  sum  to  half  kill  each  other,  and  many  more 
such  disgusting  and  degrading  spectacles,  which  are 
pretty  sure  to  draw  enormous  audiences,  but  some 
few  among  the  spectators  have  a  sense  of  shame, 
and  when  asked  if  they  have  been  to  see  "  so  and  so  " 
reply,  "  Yes,  I  was  taken  there." 

It 's  surprising  how  many  people  go  to  places  of 
so-called  amusement  under  compulsion  (according 
to  their  own  showing),  or  is  it  a  sense  of  duty  which 
allows  them  to  be  "  taken  "  to  such  places,  so  that 
they  may  know  what  to  warn  others  against? 

I,  personally,  have  a  conscience,  so  I  say  that 
I  was  "taken"  to  Cremorne  Gardens  in  1877  by 
some  of  my  fellow-students  at  the  R.  A.  My  first 
visit  was  also  my  last,  as  the  famous  gardens  closed 
on  that  eventful  night  and  never  re-opened.  Cre- 
morne Gardens,  situated  in  the  extensive  grounds  of 
Cremorne  House,  the  suburban  residence  of  Lord 
Cremorne,  were  given  over  to  the  public  for  their 
amusement  and  recreation.  A  portion  of  the 
gardens  was  owned  originally  by  Dr.  Hadley,  the 
son  of  a  well-known  bishop. 

The  numerous  complaints  to  the  local  vestry  and 
to  the  police,  of  the  rowdyism  in  the  neighbourhood 
and  the  noise  of  the  fireworks,  eventually  closed 
these  famous  grounds,  and  shortly  afterwards  rows 
of  stucco  villas  were  put  up  by  the  speculative 
jerry-builders  and  were  occupied  by  more  —  or 
less  —  respectable  people. 

137 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

My  fellow-students  and  myself  drove  to  this 
notorious  haunt  of  pleasure  and  noise  in  hansom 
cabs,  four  or  five  of  us  inside  one  cab.  I  forget 
whether  there  was  also  a  fare  outside;  there  fre- 
quently was  in  those  days,  apparently  quite  happy 
and  occasionally  drinking  something  out  of  a  bottle. 

I  remember  distinctly  how  we  got  there,  but  my 
memory  is  a  little  defective  as  to  how  or  when  we 
left.  I  think  I  accepted  the  hospitality  of  a  fellow- 
student  who  lived  at  Chelsea,  which  was  a  very 
long  way  from  Hampstead,  and  told  my  parents 
the  next  day  that  "  Mr.  Pilkin,  the  Royal  Academi- 
cian, had  kindly  asked  me  back  to  his  house  at 
Norwood  to  dinner,  to  see  his  pictures,  and  forget- 
ting the  time,  I  had  missed  the  last  train  and  so  my 
host  had  kindly  put  me  up  for  the  night."  That 
was  what  I  told  my  good  people  at  home,  and  my 
unsuspecting  parents,  never  for  one  moment  think- 
ing I  differed  from  George  Washington,  swallowed 
the  lie  like  milk,  and  furthermore,  expressed  a  most 
earnest  wish  that  if  ever  again  I  was  privileged  to 
be  asked  to  Norwood  by  so  important  an  artist  as 
"  Mr.  Pilkin,"  I  should  stay  the  night  there  rather 
than  attempt  such  a  long  journey  home  so  late  "  by 
myself." 

I  quite  agreed  with  them,  and  obeyed  their  wishes 
on  many  subsequent  occasions.  These  prevarica- 
tions later  on  nearly  got  me  into  serious  trouble, 
for  my  parents,  remembering  the  alleged  hospitality 
the  Academician  had  extended  to  me,  to  my  horror 
invited  him  to  dinner,  but  could  n't  discover  his 
address  in  the  directory  and  asked  me  for  the  name 
of  the  house  at  Norwood. 
138 


"FAST"    LIFE    IN    LONDON 

For  a  moment  I  was  dumfounded.  There  was 
no  Academician  named  Pilkin  living  at  Norwood, 
and  I  had  never  been  to  Norwood  except  to  the 
Crystal  Palace.  A  brilliant  idea  struck  me.  I 
told  them  my  kind  host  never  went  out  to  dinner. 
In  fact,  he  couldn't;  he  was  lame,  an  invalid. 
That 's  why  he  liked  people  to  go  to  him,  because  he 
could  n't  go  to  them.  My  reputation  was  saved,  and 
I  visited  the  alleged  invalid  frequently  afterwards! 

All  I  remember  of  Cremorne  Gardens  was  that 
they  seemed  to  me  to  be  very  beautiful,  with  many 
fine  trees  and  everything  brilliantly  illuminated 
with  gas  jets  and  coloured  Vauxhall  lights,  and  a 
large  circular  platform,  on  which  couples  danced 
to  a  fine  band. 

I  was  once  at  the  Argyll  Rooms  (now  the  Tro- 
cadero  Restaurant  in  Shaftesbury  Avenue),  which 
closed  in  1878.  I  thought  the  Argyll  a  respectably 
conducted  dancing  place,  but  rather  dull,  as  "  fast 
life  "  frequently  was  in  those  days. 

There  used  to  be  several  bars  in  the  Haymarket 
that  were  supposed  to  be  "  fast,"  the  "  Blue  Posts " 
and  the  "  Burmese."  The  latter  remained  open  later 
than  the  other  places,  because  they  were  only  sup- 
posed to  sell  coffee,  but  sub  rosa  you  could  get  a  glass 
of  cherry  brandy  if  you  knew  "  Mrs.  Barnes,"  a 
handsome  woman,  with  fair  hair,  who  generally 
dressed  in  Cambridge  blue  satin.  The  Burmese  was 
a  very  solemn  affair.  To  give  an  air  of  fastness  to  the 
place,  from  the  ceiling  of  the  bar  parlour  were 
suspended  some  coloured  glass  globes  of  red,  purple, 
and  green.  Persons  of  both  sexes  would  sit  round 
the  room  in  almost  total  silence,  and  every  now  and 

139 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

then  the  police  went  through  the  farce  of  marching 
in  and  out  of  the  premises  to  see  whether  there  was 
any  rowdyism  or  "  drinking  after  hours."  Some- 
times, to  break  the  silence,  someone  would  observe 
that  it  was  a  fine  day;  another  with  equal  courage 
would  reply,  "  Indeed  it  has  been,  but  it  was  wet 
yesterday." 

On  one  of  these  mournful  occasions  I  was  in  the 
company  of  Herbert  Beddington  and  his  cousin 
Frank,  a  very  lively  young  gentleman,  almost  a  boy, 
and  the  latter,  recognising  some  friends  who  had 
just  entered,  shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "  What 
ho!  Come  in  and  join  the  prayer  meeting."  So 
deadly  respectable  was  this  midnight  gathering  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen  that  the  fair  "  Mrs.  Barnes " 
said  to  me,  "  If  your  friend  can't  behave  himself,  he 
had  better  go  out." 

I  pretended  to  be  shocked  at  his  conduct  and  told 
her  I  had  never  known  him  to  behave  so  before, 
and  I  drank  her  health  in  cherry  brandy.  I  have 
tried  to  dance  the  Caledonians  at  Rosherville 
Gardens,  but  my  attempt  was  not  a  success. 

"  Weippert's,"  "  Henry  Mott's "  in  Langham 
Street,  the  "Pic"  (Piccadilly  Circus,  where  the 
Piccadilly  Tube  station  is  now),  and  "  Kate  Hamil- 
ton's," a  gambling  saloon  in  Jermyn  Street,  flour- 
ished long  before  my  time. 

But  in  the  middle  eighties  there  were  numerous 
lively  clubs  started  in  London  —  the  Corinthian  in 
St.  James's  Square,  the  Gardenia  in  Leicester 
Square,  the  Waterloo,  and  Regency  in  Waterloo 
Place,  the  Palm  in  Oxford  Street,  and  the  Percy 
Club  in  Percy  Street  off  Tottenham  Court  Road. 
140 


"FAST"    LIFE    IN    LONDON 

These  clubs  were  not  difficult  to  become  members 
of,  though  you  had  to  be  properly  proposed  and 
seconded ;  this  was  frequently  accomplished,  so  said 
a  famous  wag  who  drew  for  Vanity  Fair,  by  the  aid 
of  the  Hall  Porter  as  proposer,  and  a  cabman  as 
seconder.  There  was  a  big  dancing  club  in  the 
Upper  Street,  Islington,  called  "  The  Sporting  and 
Dramatic  Club." 

I  was  not  a  member,  but  I  was  "  taken  there  " 
ten  years  later,  one  night,  by  an  honorary  member, 
Mr.  Tom  Heslewood. 

There  was  a  band  playing  "  After  the  Ball,"  the 
latest  waltz  at  that  time,  and  the  floor  was  positively 
bending  and  swaying  with  the  crowds  revolving 
on  it.  It  was  a  crowd  of  all  sorts  and  conditions, 
though  they  might  possibly  have  been  honest  and 
fairly  respectable. 

I  asked  the  porter  at  the  entrance  (he  had  a  black 
eye  and  a  portion  of  his  lower  lip  was  torn  away) 
whether  any  of  the  shining  lights  of  the  turf  or  the 
dramatic  profession  were  represented.  He  re- 
plied, "  I  don't  know,  I  '11  look."  I  said,  "  Is  Lord 
So-and-So  here  to-night,  whose  horse  won  the  Gold 
Cup  at  Ascot?  "  He  replied,  "  I  'm  not  sure,  is  he 
dancing?"  I  said,  "  /  wasn't  sure,  either."  I  said, 
"  It  being  a  Dramatic  Club,  of  course  you  have  all 
the  chief  actors  here?  "  "  Oh  yes,"  he  stammered 
out,  "mostly."  "Is  Irving  here?"  "Who?" 
"Irving,"  I  replied,  "the  great  actor."  "No- 
no,"  he  answered,  "  I  don't  think  he  's  here  TO- 
NIGHT. I'm  almost  sure  he  isn't."  As  if  there  might 
be  some  doubt.  "  Is  Toole  here?  "  I  asked.  "  Toole 
—  no,"  he  answered.    "  He  —  oh,  he  's  just  gone!  " 

141 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

I  need  hardly  say  the  late  Sir  Henry  Irving  and 
J.  L.  Toole  had  never  heard  of  the  Club,  until, 
much  to  their  amusement,  I  gave  them  a  graphic 
description  of  what  had  occurred  on  the  evening  I 
was  "  taken  there." 

My  young  friend  Frank  Beddington  in  those 
days  was  not  allowed  a  latchkey,  and  his  people 
were  generally  under  the  impression  that  he  was 
in  bed  and  fast  asleep  by  eleven  o'clock,  whereas 
I  have  often  met  him  at  some  of  these  Clubs  to 
which  I  have  been  "  taken  "  at  three  in  the  morn- 
ing. Frank  would  flourish  a  huge  iron  key  of  the 
old-fashioned  type,  weighing  about  a  pound,  which 
he  called  his  "  Latchkey."  It  was  the  key  of  the 
kitchen  door  of  his  father's  residence,  which  by 
some  arrangement  with  the  butler  he  had  comman- 
deered, so  that  he  was  able  to  come  home  with  the 
milk  and  get  in  by  the  kitchen  entrance.  He  is 
like  myself  now,  a  respectable  married  man. 

Very  many  years  ago  I  was  careering  up  Water- 
loo Place  in  the  small  hours  in  company  with  some 
very  festive  modern  "  Scowers  "  or  "  Mohocks  " 
and  in  the  thick  of  a  promenade  of  sorts 
outside  the  Raleigh  Club  there  was  a  sudden 
halt  and  a  push,  and  a  dozen  people  went 
down.  Unfortunately  for  me,  I  was  about  the 
first  to  fall,  and  on  the  top  of  me  were  about 
half  a  dozen  ladies,  some  of  them  smothered 
in  cheap  dyed  furs.  The  pressure  against  my  face 
nearly  suffocated  me,  there  was  a  horrible  row 
of  swearing  and  cursing,  and  when  I  eventually 
struggled  to  my  feet,  I  found  I  was  nearly  choked 
with  fur,  my  mouth  was  full  of  it.  I,  poor  wretch, 
142 


"FAST"   LIFE    IN    LONDON 

had  done  nothing  and  whilst  I  was  standing,  spit- 
ting and  spluttering,  trying  to  remove  the  fur  from 
my  mouth,  about  half  a  dozen  ladies  smacked  my 
face  and  knocked  off  my  hat,  and  while  I  was  trying 
to  expostulate  on  the  injustice  they  were  measuring 
out  to  me,  a  constable,  without  making  any  in- 
quiries, seized  me  by  the  scruff  of  my  neck  and 
rushed  me  along  to  Marlborough  Street,  treading 
on  my  heels  as  he  went. 

Knowing  what  bad  policy  it  is  to  bring  a  charge 
against  a  policeman  —  for  under  such  circum- 
stances the  case  will  be  remanded  and  probably 
reported,  and  instead  of  being  fined  four  or  five 
shillings  only,  you  will  be  fined  considerably  more 
for  doing  nothing  —  I  thought  it  wiser  to  apologise 
to  the  constable  for  giving  him  so  much  trouble, 
and  I  earnestly  expressed  my  regret  and  handed 
him  half  a  sovereign.  He  took  my  name  and  address 
(I  was  always  ready  with  a  false  one),  accepted  my 
apology  and  the  half-sovereign,  and  growled  out 
the  following  advice,  that  "  I  had  better  get  home 
as  quick  as  I  could  and  not  go  about  insulting 
people!  !  I" 

One  night  I  had  been  dining  with  some  friends 
in  Cavendish  Square  and  stayed  until  the  very  last, 
a  bad  habit  of  mine  then.  The  tired  host  was  yawn- 
ing, though  obliged  to  look  cheery  and  offer  another 
cigar,  while  all  the  time  he  was  wishing  me  at 
Timbuctoo.  I  noticed  I  was  boring  him,  so  wished 
him  good-night  and  the  door  was  quickly  shut  on 
me,  and  the  lights  turned  out  in  case  I  should  alter 
my  mind  and  return.  I  proceeded  to  walk  to  my 
home,  65  Harley  Street. 

143 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

I  had  n't  walked  far  before  I  observed  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  Square,  near  Harley  Street,  a 
lady  apparently  in  great  distress,  who  had  just 
alighted  from  a  four-wheeled  cab,  and  I  heard  her 
say  excitedly,  "Dreadful  cabmen!"  etc.,  etc. 

She  was  dressed  in  white  satin,  and  was  pulling  a 
cloak  round  her  shoulders  as  if  she  were  cold.  She 
was  of  medium  height,  had  very  golden  hair,  and 
was  exceedingly  pretty. 

Being  an  artist,  I  confess  I  was  attracted  by  her 
appearance.  I  was  also  desirous  of  assuming  the 
air  and  manner  of  a  modern  Lancelot,  and  come 
to  the  rescue  of  a  beautiful  lady  in  distress.  So 
in  my  best  manner  I  approached  her  and  raised 
my  hat,  and  asked  her  if  I  could  be  of  any  service 
to  her? 

She  explained  with  indignation,  in  a  pretty,  but 
somewhat  affected  voice,  that  the  cabman  refused 
to  take  her  any  further.  She  told  me  she  had 
been  to  a  ball,  and  in  a  great  crowd  had 
lost  her  chaperon,  and  was  now  stranded  in  the 
centre  of  London  and  was  a  stranger  in  the 
neighbourhood.  She  said  her  parents  lived  at 
Highgate,  and  putting  a  lace  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes,  which  were  full  of  tears,  she  wondered  "  what 
her  people  would  think  had  become  of  her!  " 

I  was  greatly  moved  by  her  remarks,  and  I  con- 
fess to  placing  my  arm  partly  round  her  waist  —  in 
the  way  of  support,  naturally  —  and  as  she  raised  no 
objection  I  remained  in  the  same  rather  pleasant 
attitude,  while  she  endeavoured  to  suppress  her 
sobs,  and  I  swore  that  I  would  find  a  cab  for  her 
if  I  had  "  to  scour  the  Metropolis."  She  whis- 
144 


"FAST"    LIFE    IN    LONDON 

pered  that  I  was  "  indeed  a  gentleman  "  and  took 
my  arm,  and  we  walked  some  yards  in  silence;  the 
only  sound  was  the  clattering  of  her  rather  high 
French  heels  on  the  pavement.  There  was  no  other 
cab  in  sight,  and  I  felt  not  a  little  embarrassed,  but 
also  somewhat  pleased. 

I  stopped  to  replace  the  chiffon  which  had  fallen 
from  her  head,  and  raising  her  pretty  eyes,  she 
thanked  me  with  a  sweet  smile,  and  again  "  won- 
dered "  what  her  people  would  think  had  become 
of  her! 

I  said,  "  Sweet  one,  your  loss  is  my  gain,  and  I 
feel  selfish  at  the  privilege  accorded  me  of  being 
your  escort,  and  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst  I  '11 
ask  you  to  take  temporary  shelter  in  my  house  in 
Harley  Street,  close  by.  And  while  I  am  search- 
ing for  a  cab,  my  housekeeper,  whom  I  will  ring 
up,  will  get  you  a  cup  of  tea,  or  whatever  you  may 
want." 

In  an  excited  manner  she  said,  "  No,  no,  don't 
disturb  anyone,  please.  I  should  hate  it,  but  I  'm 
so  harassed,  I  feel  inclined  to  faint,  I  'm  quite  over- 
come," and  she  rested  her  head  on  my  shoulder,  and 
how  pretty  she  looked! 

"  Poor  girl!  Poor  girl!  "  I  sympathetically  ex- 
claimed.   "  I  'm  so  sorry." 

After  a  sigh  or  two  she  said,  "  Perhaps  a  little 
brandy  might  alleviate  this  feeling  of  faintness,  and 
perhaps  I  had  better  accept  your  hospitality,  though 
what  my  people  would  think  I  dare  not  imagine." 

While  putting  her  cloak  round  her  pretty  un- 
covered shoulders,  and  while  for  the  second  time 
replacing  the  piece  of  chiffon  round  her  head,  her 

145 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

soft  cheek  came  in  contact  with  mine.  After  a 
long  pause  she  said : 

"  I  think  you  're  a  dear  good  fellow,  but  I  wonder 
what  my  people  would  think?  I  know  what  my 
brother  would  say.    He  has  a  horrible  temper." 

She  then  commented  on  the  numerous  servants 
they  kept  "  at  home."  Slaveys  she  called  them. 
11  We  keep  eight  or  nine  not  counting  the  butler." 
This  last  curious  assertion  stuck  in  my  throat  a  bit, 
and  I  looked  at  her  suspiciously.  Her  pretty  and 
rather  assumed  aristocratic  voice  entirely  altered  as 
she  said,  "  We  've  got  a  pretty  big  minage,  you 
know!" 

I  rather  coldly  responded,  "  How  should  I 
know?" 

She  replied  curtly,  "  Do  you  mean  that  for  sar- 
casm, or  do  you  wish  to  insult  me?  " 

II  Certainly  not,"  I  replied. 

Suddenly  I  became  very  suspicious  of  her.  Her 
manner  was  so  strange  and  so  changed  that  I  realised 
that  I  was  in  the  hands  (or  the  arms)  of  an  im- 
postor, and  much  regretted  that  I  had  mentioned 
where  I  lived.  Fortunately  I  had  not  told  her  the 
number  of  my  house. 

In  her  strangely  altered  manner  she  asked  me 
how  much  further  was  my  "  roost,"  because  she 
was  n't  going  to  "  stamp  it  any  longer  for  anyone," 
and  if  I  did  n't  get  her  a  cab  soon,  she  would  sit 
on  a  doorstep  till  one  came,  even  if  she  screamed 
down  the  houses. 

We  had  just  passed  my  house,  which  was  at  the 
corner  of  New  Cavendish  Street,  and  had  crossed 
the  road,  and  this  unseemly  altercation  took  place 
146 


"FAST"    LIFE    IN    LONDON 

outside  the  residence  of  the  late  Sir  Richard  Quain, 
the  eminent  physician. 

I  need  not  describe  how  uncomfortable  I  felt, 
having  lived  in  Harley  Street  for  only  a  year, 
and  hoping  to  make  a  great  impression  as  a  fashion- 
able portrait  painter  and  as  an  exemplary  citizen, 
and  having  many  friends  and  acquaintances  in  the 
neighbourhood. 

And  here  I  was,  in  the  very  early  morning,  con- 
cerned in  a  disreputable  disturbance.  I  said,  "  I 
think  I  '11  wish  you  good-night." 

The  manners  of  the  fair  beauty  had  absolutely 
changed  by  this  time.  She  was  very  excited,  fling- 
ing her  arms  about  and  gesticulating,  while  at 
the  top  of  her  voice  in  the  wildest  manner,  she 

shouted,  "  Good-night  be  d d.     You  have  got 

to  see  me  home  to  my  parents'  house  at  Highgate. 
You  've  behaved  like  a  scoundrel,  luring  me  away 
from  my  friends  and  trying  to  decoy  me  into  your 
rooms,  I  've  read  of  such  blackguards.  You  have 
got  to  see  me  home  to  my  people  or  I  '11  scratch 

your  d d  eyes  out  " ;   and  placing  her  nails  on 

my  forehead,  she  seemed  ready  to  suit  the  action 
to  the  word. 

Never  in  my  life  had  I  encountered  such  a  terri- 
ble creature.  I  pacified  her  for  a  moment  by 
assuring  her  it  was  my  earnest  desire  "  to  see  her 
safely  home  to  her  people,"  and  at  that  instant 
an  empty  hansom  cab  came  along  and  drew  up 
at  the  side  of  us.  I  exclaimed,  "  Here  's  a  cab  at 
last." 

I  handed  the  cabman  a  handful  of  silver,  about 
fifteen  shillings,  and  asked  him  how  much  the  fare 

147 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

was,  giving  the  impression  that  money  was  of  no 
object  to  me.  He  replied,  "  Only  nine  and  six, 
which  is  a  poor  fare  to  Highgate." 

"  Quite  agree  with  you,  cabby,"  I  said.  "  Rotten. 
Have  you  got  change  for  a  fiver? "  hoping  he 
had  n't.  "  Never  mind.  I  Ve  got  plenty  of  stuff  in 
the  old  show  here.  Get  in,  dear,"  I  said,  and  handed 
the  fair  Cyprian  in  —  she  had  for  the  moment 
quieted  down.  "Cabby!"  I  said,  "turn  the  old 
gee  round,  and  stop  at  my  caboose,  and  I  '11  give 
you  a  drink  while  I  'm  getting  '  the  ready,'  and  I 
pointed  to  the  house  next  door  but  one  to  mine, 
Dr.  Birch's! 

He  turned  the  horse  round,  and  I  walked  at  the 
side  of  the  cab,  but  let  it  overtake  me  while  I  was 
lighting  a  cigarette,  as  the  cab  was  passing  the  win- 
dows of  my  house  in  Harley  Street.  On  tiptoe  I 
rushed  down  New  Cavendish  Street,  where  the 
front  door  was  situated,  and  with  my  latchkey 
quickly  entered  unobserved,  and  put  up  the  chain. 
In  a  second  I  went  up  the  stairs  in  the  dark  to  my 
bedroom.    All  was  quiet,  but  not  for  long! 

Soon,  to  my  horror,  I  heard  that  dreadful  woman 
shouting  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  "Where  is  he? 
Did  he  go  down  the  area  or  go  in  with  his  key? 
Which  house  was  it?  This  was  the  one!  "  Peering 
through  the  Venetian  blinds  of  the  darkened  room 
I  beheld  her  at  my  door,  hammering  with  the 
knocker  with  all  her  might.  The  noise  roused  my 
manservant,  Smith,  but  I  stopped  him  on  the  stair- 
case, as  he  was  proceeding  downstairs  to  open  the 
door.  Smith  was,  and  is,  a  most  respectable  man, 
and  what  he  thought  of  me  I  dare  n't  think.  With 
148 


"FAST"    LIFE    IN    LONDON 

my  hand  I  waved  him  back  and  assured  him  in  a 
whisper  it  was  "  all  right." 

He  said,  "  It  may  be  Mr.  Warner,  sir  "  (who  was 
staying  with  me),  "and  perhaps  he  has  lost  his  key." 

"  No,"  I  answered.  "  It  is  not  Mr.  Warner. 
The  lady  is  dresssed  in  white  satin,  and  for  good- 
ness' sake  don't  look  out  of  the  window,  don't  raise 
the  blinds  or  turn  up  the  light.  Go  to  bed  and 
keep  quiet,  and  I  '11  explain  everything  in  the 
morning.  But  whatever  happens,  don't  go  near  the 
door  and  keep  away  from  the  windows.  Go  to 
bed,  Smith,"  to  which  he  replied: 

"All  right,  sir  —  very  good,  sir  —  good-night, 
sir." 

The  knocking  continued  for  some  time,  and  then 
the  "  lady  "  crossed  the  road  to  Mr.  MacLaren's, 
still  shouting  and  cursing  at  the  top  of  her  voice, 
and  swearing  she  had  been  betrayed  and  ruined. 
She  then  crossed  again  to  the  opposite  corner,  and 
while  she  was  hammering  at  Sir  Richard  Quain's 
a  constable  arrived  on  the  scene  and  seized  the  fair 
one  by  the  arms,  and  having  apparently  recognized 
her,  exclaimed: 

"Hullo!  You're  at  it  again,  are  you?  Come 
along  with  me,  Miss  Tottie  Fay,  and  you  'd  best 
go  quietly.  Why  don't  you  keep  down  in  Picca- 
dilly? What  do  you  want  to  bother  the  Doctors 
for?  "  She  was  making  her  usual  explanation,  but 
his  only  answer  was,  "  I  know  all  about  that;  come 
along,  Maud  ";  and  off  they  went,  but  not  without 
a  struggle  in  which  his  helmet  was  knocked  off. 

It  turned  out  to  be  none  other  than  the  famous 
"  Tottie  Fay,   alias   Maud   Rothschild,"   the  most 

149 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

notorious  impostor  in  London  in  those  days,  whose 
blackmailing  tactics  in  the  West  End  made  a  most 
remarkable  record. 

About  that  period  scarcely  a  week  passed  in 
which  her  name  was  not  in  the  papers,  generally 
headed,  "  Tottie  Fay  again."  "  '  Maud  '  shuts  her 
dress  in  a  door."  "  A  Rothschild  in  trouble."  I 
believe  some  kind  lady  took  upon  herself  the  re- 
sponsibility of  trying  to  reform  "  Tottie  Fay,"  and 
after  spending  a  great  deal  of  her  time  and  money 
was  obliged  to  abandon  it  as  a  hopeless  case. 

A  very  well-known  smart  man  about  town  had 
a  most  unpleasant  encounter  with  the  fair  "  Tottie  " 
near  Jermyn  Street  which  ended  in  her  deliberately 
shutting  her  dress  in  his  front  door  and  screaming 
for  the  Police.  It  would  not  be  fair  to  mention 
his  name,  I  can  only  say,  he  is  a  very  tall,  middle- 
aged  man,  with  a  big  beard  now  turning  grey, 
belongs  to  many  clubs  and  is  a  famous  dancer. 

On  one  occasion  a  friend  of  mine,  by  name 
Andrew  Macfarlane,  a  sailor  and  a  jolly  good 
fellow,  spent  a  few  days'  leave  in  London,  and 
stayed  at  my  house.  We  dined  out  and  finished 
the  evening  at  some  rather  rowdy  resort,  and  re- 
turned home  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning. 
Later  in  the  day,  when  the  maid  took  Macfarlane 
a  cup  of  tea,  she  rushed  out  of  the  room  nearly 
choked,  for  it  was  full  of  gas,  which  quickly  spread 
through  the  house.  He  had  blown  out  the  gas 
before  going  to  bed,  leaving  the  tap  turned  on  to  its 
fullest  extent.  When  told  of  this  grave  error  of 
judgment,  all  he  said  was,  "  Well,  all  I  can  tell  you 
is  that  I  have  never  slept  better  in  my  life!  " 
150 


CHAPTER   XII 

Cecil  Clay  makes  me  an  Offer  to  go 
on  the  Stage 

I  WAS  at  Lord's  at  the  Eton  and  Harrow 
match,  in  1885,  drinking  a  very  good  glass  of 
champagne  on  the  top  of  the  late  Johnnie 
Dickenson's  coach,  when  Cecil  Clay  —  who 
was  the  husband  of  the  late  Rosina  Vokes,  the  bril- 
liantly clever  and  versatile  actress  —  climbed  on  the 
coach  and  joined  me  in  a  glass  of  this  excellent  bev- 
erage. "  My  dear  Weedon,"  he  said,  "  there  are 
rumours  about  that  you  are  seriously  thinking  of 
going  on  the  stage ;  is  it  true?" 

I  confessed  to  him  the  rumour  had  some  founda- 
tion, and  Charles  Wyndham  had  already  offered 
me  a  little  part,  and  I  explained  my  situation. 
"  Dear  old  Weedon,"  he  said,  "  I  am  delighted  to 
hear  it."  "Why?"  I  said.  "Because,"  he  re- 
plied, "I  hope  you  will  come  with  us  to  America." 
"  What,  to  act?  "  I  said.  "  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  to 
play  some  good  parts  in  some  good  comedies,  and 
I  '11  give  you  £15  a  week!  "  "  When  are  you  start- 
ing?" I  asked.  "  In  two  or  three  weeks,"  he  re- 
plied. "  Let  me  know  to-morrow,  dear  Weedon." 
"  Right  you  are,"  I  said,  "  I  will,"  and  I  did,  I 
accepted  with  joy,  delighted  to  get  away  from  my 
bad  luck  in  London. 

This  was  July;  by  the  end  of  August  I  was  re- 

151 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

hearsing  for  a  drama  and  a  farce,  and  on  Septem- 
ber 7,  1885,  I  made  my  first  appearance  on  the 
stage  at  the  Old  Prince  of  Wales  Theatre,  Liver- 
pool, in  a  play  called  "  Time  will  tell,"  by  Herbert 
Gardner,  now  Lord  Burghclere.  I  played  the  part 
of  an  unscrupulous  lawyer  in  the  prologue.  It  was 
a  wretched  performance,  but  fortunately  I  was  on 
the  stage  only  a  few  minutes.  How  thankful  the 
audience  must  have  been  for  that 

No  one  seemed  to  care,  the  audience  were  quite 
resigned,  whilst  I  was  dreadfully  nervous  and 
could  n't  get  the  pitch  of  the  house  or  manage  my 
voice,  and  the  sensational  music  which  accompanied 
the  dialogue  did  n't  assist  me. 

But  I  bucked  up  considerably  in  the  last  piece, 
"  The  Tinted  Venus,"  by  Anstey,  adapted  by 
William  Wilde,  in  which  I  played  the  heroic 
Barber,  and  dear  Rosina  Vokes  "  The  Statue." 

Rosina  Vokes  was  my  first  instructress  in  the  Art 
of  Acting.  She  was  the  manageress  and  general 
producer,  and  while  coaching  and  teaching  one  all 
she  knew,  she  made  a  great  point  of  never  interfer- 
ing with  one's  individuality,  which,  in  my  opinion, 
is  of  the  greatest  importance  to  the  player  and  the 
play.  One  of  the  mistakes  the  producer  frequently 
makes  is  in  insisting  that  every  intonation  and  action 
shall  be  the  same  as  his  own,  with  the  result  that 
the  actor  is  simply  giving  a  slavish  imitation  of  the 
producer,  and  speaking  and  acting  in  a  manner  that 
is  quite  unnatural  to  himself,  and  therefore  unreal 
to  the  audience. 

Miss  Vokes  knew  that  there  were  many  ways  of 
expressing  the  various  emotions,  and  wanted  her 
152 


LORD    ARTHUR    I'OMKROY    IN    "THE    PANTOMIME    REHEARSAL- 


CECIL   CLAY   MAKES    AN    OFFER 

company  to  depict  them  in  their  own  natural 
manner  and  then  added  the  value  of  her  experi- 
ence without  destroying  the  individuality  of  the 
artist. 

Willie  Elliot  (who  was  the  stage  manager)  and 
I  stayed  at  the  same  hotel  at  Liverpool,  a  Temper- 
ance Hotel,  called  "  The  Shaftesbury."  We  did  n't 
stay  there  because  we  favoured  the  cause  of  temper- 
ance, not  at  all,  but  because  it  was  cheap,  and 
Brandon  Thomas,  who  was  also  a  member  of  the 
company,  hearing  how  economically  we  were  liv- 
ing, called  on  us  the  following  day  at  lunch-time 
and  said  he  was  going  to  stay  there  also  and  secured 
a  room.  We  wanted  his  jovial  society,  so  we  did  n't 
think  it  necessary  to  tell  him  it  was  a  Temperance 
hotel.  He  sat  down  to  lunch  with  us  and  requested 
the  waitress  to  bring  a  bottle  of  Bass;  she  replied, 
"  Temperance,"  and  turned  away  to  attend  to  some- 
one else. 

Brandon  looked  at  Willie  Elliot  and  myself  and 
said,  "  Tenpence,  that 's  rather  dear.  I  thought 
you  said  this  hotel  was  cheap"  We  neither  of  us 
replied. 

Thomas  called  the  girl  again,  and  said,  "  I  don't 
mean  a  big  bottle  of  bass,  a  small  bottle." 

The  girl  rather  sharply  replied,  "  I  told  you 
before  it 's  Temperance" 

Brandon  remarked  that  he  had  never  paid  more 
than  sixpence  for  a  small  bottle  and  frequently  less. 

A  gentleman  at  an  opposite  table  explained  the 
situation;  he  said,  "The  maid  didn't  say  'ten- 
pence,'  but  '  temperance.'  This,  sir,  is  a  temper- 
ance hotel,  and  they  don't  sell  Bass." 

153 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

Thomas  was  amazed;  he  made  no  reply,  but 
turned  round  to  Elliot  and  myself  and  fixed  us  with 
a  stony  glare.     "What  are  you  chaps  drinking?" 

"  Soda  water,"  we  replied. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  waitress  and  said,  "  Bring 
me  some  of  that  golden-coloured  soda  water  that 
those  gentlemen  are  drinking."  We  were  obliged 
to  pass  our  flask  to  him  lest  he  should  give  us 
away. 

Whether  it  was  that  Brandon  Thomas  and  myself 
were  worried  with  our  debts,  or  the  result  of  too 
much  of  the  golden  mixture  that  one  foolishly  im- 
agines helps  to  smooth  over  all  difficulties  in  this 
life,  I  don't  know,  but  Thomas  commenced  to  wish 
he  were  at  home  again,  and  the  night  before  we  left 
Liverpool  for  New  York  he  asked  me  whether  I 
had  any  messages  to  leave  behind,  for  now  was  the 
time  to  do  it;  for,  said  he,  pouring  out  from  a 
large  glass  flask  the  golden  mixture  that  he  had  pro- 
cured from  a  licensed  house  into  a  tumbler  half  full 
of  soda  water,  "  Weedon,  we  shall  never  reach  the 
other  side.  I  dreamed  last  night  we  were  clinging 
to  rocks."  He  was  then  grasping  the  flask  tightly 
with  the  right  hand.  "  You  and  I,  Weedon,  with 
the  waves  splashing  over  us.  Don't  you  want  to 
write  to  somebody?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  said,  relieving  him  of  the 
tight  grip  he  had  on  the  flask,  "  I  don't  think  so." 

"  Have  you  made  a  will?  "  he  asked  me. 

"  No,"  I  replied,  "  That 's  one  advantage  of  hav- 
ing nothing  in  the  world,  you  have  n't  got  to  bother 
about  making  a  will." 

When  we  were  about  half-way  across  the  Atlan- 
154 


CECIL   CLAY   MAKES   AN    OFFER 

tic  the  ship  behaved  very  badly,  very  badly  indeed ; 
we  were  two  days  in  very  rough  seas.  Brandon 
did  n't  seem  to  care  what  happened,  but  I  could  n't 
help  thinking  of  his  gloomy  prophecy,  he  and  I 
clinging  to  the  rocks,  so  much  so  that  I  asked  the 
purser  if  we  were  in  danger  of  rocks.  "  Not  here," 
he  replied  with  a  good-natured  chuckle,  "  It 's  over 
four  miles  deep." 

I  was  glad  to  know  there  were  no  rocks,  but  sorry 
to  hear  that  the  water  was  so  deep,  but  was  some- 
what consoled  when  the  purser  told  me  that  one 
could  drown  equally  well  in  ten  feet,  but  I  could  n't 
help  thinking  that  drowning  in  water  four  miles 
deep  seemed  far  worse.  I  also  inquired  of  the 
purser  if  the  shore  boats  were  in  perfect  order.  "  I 
think  so,"  he  laughingly  replied,  "  but  if  this  big 
ship  could  n't  live  in  this  gale  you  may  be  perfectly 
sure  those  little  boats  could  n't." 

I  staggered  to  Thomas's  bunk  and  reported  this 
favourable  information  which  the  purser  had  im- 
parted to  me  about  the  shore  boats.  Brandon  just 
shook  me  solemnly  by  the  hand  and  said,  "  If  any- 
thing happens  to  you,  has  your  brother  made  himself 
responsible  for  your  debts?" 

"  Good  gracious,  no,"  I  replied. 

"  That 's  a  good  thing,"  said  Thomas. 

I  turned  into  my  bunk  fairly  depressed,  and  put 
cotton  wool  in  my  ears  to  deaden  the  horrible  sound 
of  the  banging  of  the  waves  against  the  ship  and  the 
drenching  rain,  and  the  hideous  grating  noise  of  the 
screw  when  it  comes  out  of  the  water,  owing  to  the 
vessel  pitching  violently  forward.  I  eventually 
slept,  and  when  I  awoke  the  next  day,  there  was  still 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

a  pretty  good  swell  on.  But  I  saw  one  of  the  bright- 
est blue  skies  I  have  ever  seen.  It  was  delightful, 
and  remained  like  this  till  we  arrived  at  New  York 
—  which  resembled  Paris  more  than  London — with 
its  white  houses  and  green  shutters.  It  was  dread- 
fully hot,  and  at  the  Hoffman  House  I  made  my 
first  acquaintance  with  a  mosquito. 

We  opened  at  the  Globe  Theatre,  Boston,  in 
"  The  Parvenu,"  which  had  already  been  played 
there  with  their  own  popular  favourite  without 
success,  so  our  start  was  not  favourable. 

But  though  they  did  n't  care  for  the  play,  Miss 
Vokes  made  a  great  personal  success,  and  the  shar- 
ing manager,  a  man  not  overburdened  with  intelli- 
gence, suggested  that  Miss  Vokes,  while  sitting  on 
the  branches  of  a  tree  in  a  pretty  love  scene,  should 
sing  the  "  Tit  Willow  "  from  the  "  Mikado,"  which 
was  then  all  the  rage.  He  was  one  of  those  ignorant 
men  (there  are  many)  who  imagine  that  any  play 
can  be  improved  or  bolstered  up  in  the  weak  parts 
by  the  introduction  of  a  song  or  dance. 

My  old  friend  W.  R.  Stavely,  who,  like  myself, 
was  then  a  novice,  was  n't  sure  of  his  words  or  his 
"  make  up."  But  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  making 
his  first  entrance  he  assured  me  that  he  was  n't 
"  a  bit  nervous,"  and  in  his  jovial  manner  said, 
"  I  always  say  that,  whatever  happens,  they 
can't  kill  you."  His  axiom  on  this  particular 
occasion  very  nearly  failed,  for  the  ex-pugilist 
sharing  manager,  who  owned  the  theatre,  rushed 
through  the  pass  door  on  the  conclusion  of 
the  play,  asking  where  the  man  Stavely  was.  But 
Stavely,  who  was  not  on  in  the  last  act,  by  that  time 
156 


CECIL   CLAY   MAKES   AN    OFFER 

was  comfortably  seated  at  his  hotel,  enjoying  the  de- 
lights of  cold  pork  and  "  Boston  beans." 

As  we  did  n't "  strike  oil  "  at  Boston,  we  were  sent 
on  what  is  called  "  one  night  stands,"  for  six 
weeks,  frequently  travelling  all  night  after  the 
performance.  The  changes  of  climate  were 
very  trying.  I  remember  leaving  Richmond 
in  Virginia,  where  the  heat  was  almost  tropical,  on 
the  Saturday  night,  and  arriving  on  Monday  after- 
noon at  Montreal,  where  it  was  snowing.  Person- 
ally, I  was  never  happier.  Thanks  to  my  benefac- 
tor, Cecil  Clay,  who  had  given  me  my  first  engage- 
ment at  a  capital  salary,  I  commenced  to  see  possi- 
bilities of  my  getting  out  of  the  mire,  and  I  am  ever 
grateful  to  him  for  his  plucky  and  generous  offer, 
the  turning  point  in  my  career.  It  was  a  tremendous 
change  for  me,  this  totally  different  life. 

I  travelled  with  a  paint  box,  a  gun,  and  fishing 
rods,  so  there  was  always  something  to  do  if  we 
were  n't  rehearsing.  I  was  invariably  painting  in 
the  daytime,  a  landscape,  or  sometimes  members  of 
our  company  would  sit  to  me!  ! 

As  we  journeyed  on  I  was  particularly  struck  with 
one  picturesque  little  town  with  a  waterfall  close 
by,  which  I  painted.  "  Is  n't  this  a  lovely  village?  " 
I  said  to  Cecil  Clay  after  the  performance.  "  I 
don't  agree  with  you,  Weedon,  it 's  a  beastly  ugly 
place,"  said  Cecil.  "  What!  "  I  exclaimed.  "Have 
you  seen  the  waterfall?  "  "  No,"  he  said,  "  but  I  've 
seen  the  returns,  and  you  can  take  it  from  me,  Wee- 
don, that  it  may  be  a  good  place  for  a  landscape 
painter  but  not  for  a  theatrical  manager."  What- 
ever bad  business  we  might  have  done  made  no  dif- 

157 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

ference  to  me,  as  I  was  receiving  a  salary,  but  since 
those  days  I  have  been  a  manager  myself,  and  can 
now  sympathise  with  the  feelings  of  Cecil  Clay. 

There  was  a  little  one-act  play,  "  The  Milliner's 
Bill,"  in  which  Miss  Vokes  had  made  a  great  success 
with  Brandon  Thomas,  so  this  was  played  with 
two  other  pieces,  forming  a  triple  bill,  and  "  The 
Pantomime  Rehearsal  "  was  tried  as  a  great  experi- 
ment as  the  last  piece.  It  was  written  by  Cecil  Clay 
and  played  first  by  amateurs  including  the  Pon- 
sonbys,  "  Claud  and  Scrobbie,"  in  London.  But 
making  the  characters  distinguished  amateurs,  I 
fancy,  emanated  from  Brandon  Thomas  and  myself, 
and  Brandon  commenced  to  write  his  part,  and  I 
mine,  —  of  course  with  Miss  Vokes'  permission. 

We  thought  it  might  possibly  appeal  to  the  taste 
of  the  public,  but  we  never  imagined  in  our  wildest 
dreams  that  it  would  achieve  the  enormous  success 
it  did.  It  caught  on  like  a  fever,  and  we  returned 
to  Boston  and  played  to  the  capacity  of  the  house 
for  six  weeks. 

Outside  the  brilliant  and  mercurial  performance 
of  Miss  Vokes,  who  had  a  most  remarkable  person- 
ality, there  were  Miss  Carlingford  and  the  beau- 
tiful Miss  Edith  Chester.  Brandon  Thomas,  W.  G. 
Elliot,  and  myself  also  established  ourselves  as 
favourites  in  the  characters  of  typical  English  dudes, 
Brandon  Thomas  as  the  ideal  heavy  dragoon  (Cap- 
tain Tom  Robinson),  Willie  Elliot  playing  Jack 
Deedes,  the  useful  tame  cat  of  the  drawing  room, 
the  type  of  man  who  is  asked  everywhere  (where 
that  type  is  wanted),  who  pays  for  his  salt,  who 
gets  a  good  lunch,  or  dinner,  on  terms,  the  terms 
158 


CECIL   CLAY   MAKES   AN    OFFER 

being  that  he  must  always  be  ready  to  entertain  the 
guests,  get  up  charity  concerts  or  amateur  theatri- 
cals at  a  moment's  notice,  whilst  I  played  Lord 
Arthur,  a  rather  good-natured,  fatuous,  conceited 
ass,  who  had  a  colossal  opinion  of  his  own  powers 
and  ability  in  acting. 

Failure  was  known  to  us  no  more,  and  we  simply 
"wallowed  "  in  success  wherever  we  went. 

It  was  a  strange  experience  for  me.  That  a  few 
months  before  in  England  I  was  a  painter  who  could 
walk  through  the  streets  as  a  humble  individual 
without  notice  seemed  like  a  dream.  In  that  short 
space  of  time  I  had  become  a  marked  man ;  whether 
at  Sherry's,  Delmonico's,  or  walking  down  Fifth 
Avenue,  I  was  spotted  everywhere  as  "  Vokes' 
Dude."  I  was  asked  everywhere  and  put  up  as  an 
honorary  member  for  nine  clubs.  I  never  really 
realised  till  a  year  afterwards  what  a  success  I  had 
made.  I  had  produced  a  new  kind  of  stage  dude 
or  masher.  Up  till  then  the  public  had  been  ac- 
quainted with  the  wonderful  character  that  Sothern 
had  created,  "  Lord  Dundreary,"  with  long  side 
whiskers  and  the  lisp  and  a  stutter.  But  the  other 
variations  of  the  masher  had  generally  been  de- 
picted by  a  very  tall  man,  with  a  very  fair  wig  and 
a  very  pale  face,  who  constantlv  drawled  out,  "  Haw! 
Haw!  Don't-cher-know?  Haw!  Weally!"  So 
my  masher  came  like  a  thunderbolt,  with  dark  hair, 
a  little  bit  curly  in  front,  and  red  face,  a  small  man 
dressed  in  the  pink  of  fashion.  I  was  the  first  actor 
to  introduce  the  crease  down  the  centre  of  the 
trousers,  a  huge  straw-coloured  diamond  in  the 
centre  of  my  shirt  and  a  small  emerald  above  and 

159 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

below  it,  which  I  copied  from  Lord  Kinnoull  and 
the  Hon.  H.  Tyrwhitt-Wilson,  two  of  the  very 
smartest  men  of  that  day.  Some  say  I  took  the 
cheery  chuckle  and  the  smile  from  Lord  Craven  — 
in  fact,  he  told  me  so  himself  —  but  this  was  not  the 
case.  I  modelled  my  character  on  a  type  of  the 
smart  young  peer  one  used  to  meet  about  at  sporting 
gatherings  and  clubs. 

The  hand  shake  I  modelled  on  the  Prince  of 
Wales's  (afterwards  King  Edward  VII).  It  must 
not  be  confounded  with  the  ridiculous  shake  of  the 
hand  that  one  unfortunately  witnessed  and  suffered 
from  too  often  in  those  days  at  afternoon  tea  parties 
and  receptions,  when  your  hand  was  lifted  high 
in  the  air.  It  was  a  vigorous  shake  of  the  hand 
with  an  extended  arm,  held  rigid,  and  keeping  the 
recipient  of  the  shake  well  at  arm's  length.  It 
took  New  York  by  storm. 

I  must  have  been  a  realistic  character,  for  when 
we  were  playing  at  Providence,  R.  I.,  on  the  final 
night,  I  strolled  down  from  my  dressing  room, 
dressed  as  "  Lord  Arthur,"  on  to  the  stage  at  a  quar- 
ter to  ten.  I  was  only  playing  in  "  The  Pantomime 
Rehearsal "  and  was  not  wanted  till  then,  and  I 
was  talking  to  Miss  Chester  at  the  back  of  the 
scene.  The  local  manager  was  fussing  about  and 
making  himself  generally  objectionable,  and  I  heard 
him  shouting  to  someone,  "  We  're  here  on  business, 
and  no  one  's  allowed  behind  here,  and  you  had 
best  get  back  to  your  FAUTEUILS,"  pronounced  by 
him  "  Fowtiles!"  I  still  continued  chattering,  not 
dreaming  for  a  moment  that  these  remarks  were 
intended  for  me.  Presently  he  came  up  to  me,  and 
1 60 


CECIL   CLAY   MAKES   AN    OFFER 

in  a  very  rude  way  said :  "  You  've  no  right  here, 
you  must  clear/'  Being  a  novice,  I  concluded  he 
meant  I  was  interfering  with  the  setting  of  the 
scene  and  expressed  my  sorrow  and  stepped  back 
half  a  dozen  yards.  I  had  on  my  opera  hat  and 
was  putting  on  a  pair  of  white  gloves.  Presently 
he  addressed  me  again  "  with  more  violence  in  his 
tone,"  "See  here!  I've  spoken  to  you  before. 
We've  no  use  here  for  tramps  or  dudes!"  I 
answered,  "  Look  here,  d  —  n  it,  who  the  — ,"  but 
before  I  could  say  another  word,  he  seized  me  round 
the  waist  and  would  have  thrown  me  out  of  the 
building,  but  fortunately  at  that  moment  Brandon 
Thomas  came  to  the  rescue  and  explained  who  I 
was.  The  local  manager  was  most  profuse  in  his 
apologies,  and  said  he  had  never  seen  anything  like 
it  before!  !  (or  heard  anything,  either),  as  my 
make  up,  and  performance  were  "  it." 

W.  R.  Stavely  played  the  part  of  Sir  Charles 
Grandison,  and  was,  and  is,  a  great  artist  in  "  make 
up  "  and,  much  to  the  confusion  of  Miss  Vokes,  was 
continually  altering  his  appearance,  and  so  com- 
pletely changing  his  character.  Sometimes  he 
would  be  clean  shaven,  then  a  heavy  moustache. 
One  night  he  put  on  a  beard,  I  have  never  seen 
such  a  realistic  beard  before  or  since;  he  was  in 
the  theatre  two  hours  before  I  arrived,  and 
said  that  he  ought  to  have  come  earlier,  as 
to  put  on  a  beard  of  that  kind  required  the  best  part 
of  three  hours.  Hairs  seemed  to  grow  naturally  out 
of  his  face,  and  it  was  no  small  wonder  when  Miss 
Vokes  made  her  entrance  and  saw  this  strange  man 
on  the  stage,  that  she  was  much  annoyed.     She 

161 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

snatched  the  opportunity  of  saying  to  me.  "  Who's 
brought  this  man  on  the  stage?  Is  Mr.  Thomas  or 
Elliot  responsible  for  this  tomfoolery?  How  dare 
they?"  I  quickly  replied  that  it  was  Stavely  in  a 
new  make  up.  The  good-natured  smile  came  over 
her  face  again  as,  recovering  from  her  fright,  she 
said,  "  That  man  will  be  the  death  of  me,"  and  he 
was  requested  for  the  future  to  keep  to  "  one  make 
up  for  each  part  and  not  to  vary  it." 

In  the  following  year  I  went  out  again  to  the 
States  for  another  season,  playing  in  "  The  Panto- 
mime Rehearsal "  and  Vere  Quicket  in  "  The 
Schoolmistress,"  Sam  Gerridge  in  "  Caste,"  and  the 
old  lord  in  "  The  Quiet  Rubber,"  and  other  plays, 
and  I  could  have  made  a  fortune  if  I  had  remained 
in  America  for  a  few  years,  but  I  pined  for  home 
and  wanted  to  act  in  London. 

So  to  London  I  returned.  I  suppose  I  was  foolish 
and  conceited  enough  to  imagine  that  London  was 
entirely  engrossed  in  discussing  my  success  in  Amer- 
ica. I  soon  discovered  my  mistake.  London  knew 
nothing  about  it,  and  when  I  entered  the  Clubs 
with  a  sort  of  "  Here  we  are  again  "  kind  of  jollity, 
members  nodded  their  heads  to  me  over  their  news- 
papers, and  perhaps  one  would  say,  "  Weedon,  why 
don't  you  come  to  the  Club  oftener?  It  must  be 
nearly  a  month  since  you  've  been  here.  What  are 
you  painting  now?  " 

I  had  to  explain,  and  to  walk  about  blowing  my 
own  trumpet  (which  I  have  always  detested  doing), 
and  I  was  always  most  grateful  to  meet  any 
American  who  could  explain  to  them  that  I  was  "  on 
the  stage  and  had  made  a  great  success  in  America." 
162 


CHAPTER  XIII 

My  First  Appearance  in  London 

I  NOW  applied  for  an  engagement  to  every 
London  manager,  including  Charles  Hawtrey, 
who  half  promised  me  a  part,  but  it  did  n't 
come  off.  I  was  very  anxious  to  get  to  work, 
for  I  still  owed  a  lot  of  money,  although  I  had  been 
paying  off  my  debts  by  degrees  all  the  time  I  was  in 
America.  At  last  George  Edwardes  had  the  pluck 
to  make  me  an  offer  to  play  Woodcock  in  the  old 
two-act  farce  "  Woodcock's  Little  Game "  at 
the  Gaiety  in  front  of  the  short  burlesque 
"  Esmeralda." 

Nothing  would  have  induced  me  to  appear  in 
such  very  antiquated  stuff,  as  "  Woodcock's  Little 
Game,"  but  the  fact  of  being  so  hard  up.  I  had 
no  alternative,  I  could  not  refuse  the  part,  but  the 
play  was  so  old-fashioned  and  silly  that  I  suggested 
it  should  be  played  in  the  costume  of  that  period, 
about  i860,  with  the  tight  trousers  strapped  down 
and  tight  coat  sleeves,  and  a  high  collar  and  stock, 
the  dialogue  was  so  out  of  place  and  stilted  and 
was  so  incongruous  with  modern  dress. 

It  was  a  period  when  gentlemen  apparently 
thought  it  necessary  to  put  on  a  velvet  coat  and  a 
smoking  cap  when  they  wanted  to  smoke  a  cigar. 
I  suppose  the  explanation  is  that  in  those  days  smok- 

163 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

ing  was  regarded  more  or  less  as  a  disgusting  habit, 
and  the  smoking  cap  was  to  prevent  the  hair  from 
smelling  of  smoke,  and  as  the  hair  was  worn  rather 
long,  —  according  to  the  pictures  of  the  time  —  it 
might  possibly  retain  the  aroma  to  the  prejudice 
of  the  fair  sex,  who  usually  had  a  horror  of  smoking 
in  those  days.    How  times  have  changed  I 

As  I  have  said,  smoking  was  regarded  more  or 
less  as  a  vice,  but  drinking  immoderately  was  per- 
missible, even  to  the  extent  of  a  gentleman  getting 
intoxicated  in  the  presence  of  ladies,  who  frequently 
professed  to  be  amused  rather  than  annoyed,  but 
I  need  hardly  say  such  an  indiscretion  nowadays 
would  n't  be  tolerated  for  a  moment,  and  the  of- 
fender would  be  banished  from  every  decent 
house. 

In  this  play  "  Woodcock's  Little  Game  "  I  was 
supposed  to  be  a  modern  gentleman,  and  yet  I 
kept  on  referring  to  "  my  smoking  cap  and  carpet 
slippers,"  to  "  tea  and  buns  in  the  afternoon  at  the 
Pantheon,"  which  for  many  years,  even  then,  had 
been  taken  over  by  the  Gilbeys  for  a  wine  depot, 
but  in  the  forties  was  a  fashionable  Bazaar  rebuilt 
by  Smirke,  R.  A.  The  old  building  was  burned 
down  in  about  1791,  and  the  conflagration  was 
painted  by  the  great  Turner.  The  reference  to 
the  Pantheon  is,  I  believe,  now  cut  out  of  the 
play. 

It  was  in  1887  I  played  "Woodcock,"  and  these 
references  were  as  much  out  of  date  then  as  if  an 
up  to  date  masher  in  a  modern  play  suggested  sup- 
ping at  Evans'  or  dancing  at  Cremorne.  I  only 
mention  these  facts  as  a  slight  excuse  for  the  failure 
164 


MY  FIRST  APPEARANCE  IN  LONDON 

I  made  in  the  part  of  "Woodcock"  on  my  first 
appearance  on  the  London  stage.  The  part  was 
not "  actor  proof." 

George  Edwardes  never  gave  greater  evidence 
of  his  keen  sense  of  humour  than  in  putting  on 
such  an  old-fashioned  farce.  How  he  must  have 
smiled  to  himself  at  the  thought  of  the  public 
swallowing  such  stuff! 

On  Woodcock's  first  entrance,  after  the  servant 
leaves  him,  he  has  a  speech  —  or  rather  a  mono- 
logue—  containing  one  hundred  and  ninety  three 
words.  I  wonder  the  audience  did  n't  tear  up  the 
benches,  they  were  certainly  hissing  before  I  had 
got  half  through  it.  "  Woodcock  "  is  supposed  to 
be  a  gentleman  who  has  led  rather  a  fast  life  in 
London,  and  has  just  married  and  wants  to  settle 
down  in  the  country.  So  he  proceeds  to  tell  his 
old  and  faithful  servant  that  he  has  bought  "  two 
morning  gowns  in  Merino,  with  cords  and  tassels, 
three  Woollen  smoking  caps,  three  Cloth  ditto,  three 
Silk  ditto,  three  Velvet  ditto,  and  twelve  pairs  of 
slippers,"  and  he  makes  over  to  his  servant  his  entire 
stock  of  dress  coats,  waistcoats,  white  neckcloths, 
and  patent  leather  boots! 

Why,  indeed?  Is  this  gentleman,  because  he  has 
entered  into  the  happy  state,  never  going  to  dress 
for  dinner,  or  because  perhaps  he  lives  in  the  coun- 
try, is  he  always  going  to  appear  in  "  morning  gowns 
and  smoking  caps?  "  Is  this  well-to-do  gentleman, 
after  grubbing  about  in  the  garden,  going  to  sit 
down  to  dinner  with  his  pretty  young  wife  in  his 
dirty  clothes?    Surely  not. 

"  Mrs.  Carver,"  the  mother-in-law  in  the  play, 

165 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

speaks  of  a  "  glass  of  sherry  and  a  sponge  cake," 
delightfully  Victorian!  There  are  also  many  allu- 
sions to  "  Assemblies "  and  "  Routs,"  whatever 
they  may  be,  and  later  on  in  the  play,  when  Wood- 
cock renounces  his  intention  of  residing  in  the  coun- 
try, and  of  living  again  in  London  to  please  his  wife, 
he  declares  that  he  will  revel  in  "  redowas "  and 
"  plunge  into  polkas."  He  says,  "  I  '11  have  a  shy 
at  the  sausages,  I  mean  the  Schottische." 

This  i860  language  was  spoken  by  people  in 
modern  dress,  and  later  in  the  play  two  of  the 
characters  leave  the  ballroom  to  have  a  duel  with 
pistols  on  Primrose  Hill,  which  for  over  thirty 
years  has  been  surrounded  by  houses  and  been 
lighted  with  hundreds  of  gas  lights,  put  there  owing 
to  the  constant  attention  drawn  to  it  by  the  late 
John  Hollingshead,  who  was  always  writing  to  the 
papers  on  the  dangers  of  a  public  thoroughfare 
being  unlighted. 

One  of  the  worst  faults  of  the  play  was  the  "  tag  " 
which  it  was  my  misfortune  to  speak.  I  advanced 
to  the  footlights  in  the  conventional  manner  and 
said,  "  I  am  now  going  back  to  '  Stow  in  the  Wold,'  " 
which  gave  the  opportunity  to  the  comic  man  in 
the  gallery  to  reply,  "And  a  jolly  good  job  too." 
(Roars  of  laughter.)  I  proceeded,  "That  is,  if 
our  kind  friends  in  front  will  assure  me  that  success 
has  crowned  '  Woodcock's  Little  Game.'  "  The 
Gods  shouted,  "  No,  no."  "  Go  home,  Weedon." 
"  Stick  to  your  paints,  don't  act."  My  kind  friends 
in  the  stalls  did  their  best,  but  they  were  in  the 
minority,  and  when  I  foolishly  responded  to  a  call 
I  got  it  pretty  hot  from  the  pit  and  gallery. 
166 


MY  FIRST  APPEARANCE  IN  LONDON 

No  wonder  that  there  is  a  superstition  that  to 
speak  the  "  tag "  at  rehearsals  is  unlucky.  I 
venture  to  predict  that  any  play  with  a  "  tag," 
especially  like  the  one  referred  to,  is  enough  to 
bring  disaster  on  any  management. 

I  laboured  under  the  great  disadvantage  of  mak- 
ing my  first  appearance  in  London  in  a  silly  old- 
fashioned  play,  and  also  of  playing  a  light-comedy 
part,  rather  out  of  my  line,  and  following  the 
famous  Charles  Matthews  in  the  role,  for  the  play 
had  n't  been  acted  for  many  years,  and  I  have 
not  seen  it  announced  in  the  programme  of  any 
theatre  since.  Perhaps  my  performance  settled  it, 
until  this  revival  I  don't  think  it  had  been 
played  since  Matthews'  time  in  London,  though 
Charles  Collette,  that  excellent  light  comedian, 
had  played  it  many  times  "  outside  "  London. 

I  was  also  asked  by  the  producer  to  do  the  same 
business  that  Charles  Matthews  did,  and  when 
making  my  exit  at  the  end  of  the  first  act,  the  stage 
manager  said,  "  Now,  Mr.  Grossmith,  throw  the 
tails  of  your  frock  coat  over  the  back  of  your 
head." 

"Why?"    I  asked. 

"  Because  Matthews  did  it,"  he  replied. 

"  Never,"  said  I.  "  Not  having  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  see  the  great  Charles  Matthews,  I  naturally 
can't  imitate  his  methods,  and  I  must  do  things  my 
own  way." 

"  Really,"  said  the  producer,  and  looking  at  the 
other  members  of  the  company  for  applause  and 
encouragement,  in  his  best  cynical  vein  added,  "  We 
have  many  of  us  heard  through  Press  notices  what 

167 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

a  brilliant  actor  Mr.  Weedon  Grossmith  is  in  Amer- 
ica, but  is  he  going  to  improve  on  Charles 
Matthews  in  London?" 

"  That 's  not  quite  the  point,"  I  replied.  "  How 
Charles  Matthews  did  this  business  I  don't  know; 
at  any  rate,  he  was  a  gentleman  in  every  part  he 
played,  and  I  am  much  afraid  his  imitators  have 
vulgarised  his  business,  for  it  does  n't  seem  to  me 
possible  that  Charles  Matthews  would  make  an 
exit  from  a  drawing  room  in  the  presence  of  ladies 
throwing  his  coat  tails  entirely  over  his  head,  and 
whether  he  did  or  not  /  absolutely  decline  to  do 
it!  1 " 

There  is  nothing  so  bad  in  Art  or  fatal  to  the 
actor  as  to  imitate  another  man's  methods.  Irving 
had  his  own  method  and  mannerisms,  which  when 
imitated  conveyed  nothing.  Arthur  Roberts  will 
throw  off  a  lot  of  bogus  sporting  jargon,  place 
two  fingers  to  his  lips,  and  then  wave  his  hand,  all 
of  which  business  causes  a  roar  of  laughter. 
Another  man  imitates  this  action,  and  it  means 
nothing.  Charles  Hawtrey  has  a  way  on  the  stage, 
when  trying  to  get  out  of  some  dilemma  or  palpable 
lie,  of  putting  on  a  most  admirable  smile,  he  rocks 
a  bit  to  and  fro  and  blinks  his  eyes,  and  the  audience 
chuckle  with  delight.  Another  actor  blinks  his 
eyes  after  telling  a  lie,  and  the  audience  think  that 
he  is  near-sighted  and  ought  to  wear  glasses  or  con- 
sult an  oculist.  There  is  no  intelligence  in  the 
imitation. 

Cyril  Maude  made  his  first  appearance  in  a  West 
End  Theatre  on  this  same  memorable  occasion  in 
"  Woodcock's  Little  Game,"  and  made  a  hit  in  the 
168 


MY  FIRST  APPEARANCE  IN  LONDON 

part  of  "  Larkings,"  a  dude.  The  late  George  Stone 
was  also  excellent  in  it  as  "  Swansdown." 

A  failure  on  a  first  appearance  in  London  is  a 
very  serious  thing  for  the  actor,  and  he  has  a  bad 
time  everywhere. 

At  any  gathering  I  went  to  after  this,  people  said 
nothing,  but  if  sympathetic  quietly  took  my  hand 
as  if  I  had  lost  a  dear  relative,  and  if  indifferent 
looked  the  other  way  when  I  entered  a  room.  The 
managers  treated  me  as  a  leper  and  avoided  me. 
How  I  wished  I  had  never  come  back  from 
America!  Charles  Hawtrey,  who  had  just  finished 
the  run  of  that  enormous  success  "The  Private 
Secretary,"  and  was  very  prosperous,  and  in  man- 
agement at  the  Globe  sent  for  me,  and  suggested  my 
playing  in  the  next  piece,  but  he  thought  better 
of  it,  for  I  heard  no  more  from  him.  Tired  of 
waiting  for  offers  and  characteristic  of  my  ever 
vacillating  disposition,  I  threw  up  the  sponge,  and 
went  back  to  my  first  love,  painting,  and  took  a 
furnished  studio  in  Cunningham  Place,  St.  John's 
Wood.  Here  I  painted  two  or  three  pot-boilers 
and  luckily  sold  them,  and  got  a  commission  from 
the  late  Joseph  Guedalla,  the  solicitor,  to  paint  his 
two  young  daughters,  very  pretty  little  girls,  and 
I  forgot  my  recent  failure  on  The  Stage. 


169 


CHAPTER   XIV 
Henry  Irving 

DURING  these  sittings  I  received  one  day 
I  a  telegram  from  Henry  Irving,  asking 
me  to  come  to  the  Lyceum  Theatre  at 
once.    I  obeyed,  I  need  hardly  say. 

11  Do  you  think  you  could  play  Jacques  Strop," 
he  said,  "  to  my  Robert  Macaire?  " 

It  took  away  my  breath.  When  I  had  recovered 
it,  I  said,  "Could  I?  I  am  positive  I  could.  I 
could  play  it  better  than  anyone  in  London."  (Take 
my  tip,  young  actors,  this  is  the  way  to  impress  the 
management.) 

Irving  smiled  (what  a  beautiful  smile  he  had!) 
and  replied,  "Well,  my  boy,  I  hope  you're  speak- 
ing the  truth.  I  have  heard  good  things  about  you 
in  America  from  Booth  and  Jefferson."  (That's 
a  pretty  good  recommendation,  I  thought.)  "  Will 
you  rehearse  on  approval?  " 

"  Rather,"  I  replied. 

"  All  right,  come  down  here  to-morrow  at  ten 
o'clock  sharp." 

I  stepped  out  on  to  the  pavement  feeling  as  if  I 
were  floating  on  air.  I  gave  a  crossing  sweeper 
sixpence,  and  with  a  broad  smile  on  my  face  I 
courteously  apologised  to  a  market  gardener  who 
had  shouldered  me  off  the  pavement  into  the  road. 
170 


HENRY   IRVING 

Next  morning  I  had  a  private  run  through  the 
part  with  Henry  Irving  alone.  At  its  conclusion 
he  shook  hands  with  me  as  he  said,  "  ten  to-mor- 
row I  "    That  was  all,  but  enough  for  me. 

I  shall  never  forget  those  rehearsals;  everyone 
was  called,  even  the  "  extra  people,"  to  the  first  one, 
and  frequently  the  band  also.  I  kept  my  eyes  and 
ears  pretty  wide  open.  Art  came  first  with  Irving, 
it  came  before  everything.  What  a  contrast  to  the 
theatre  opposite,  where  I  had  last  played!  The 
Lyceum  was  permeated  with  Art,  absolutely  regard- 
less of  the  business  aspect,  and  the  association  and 
surroundings  made  me  feel  very  proud  that  I  was 
an  actor  and  in  such  company.  After  the  two  most 
trying  rehearsals  I  have  ever  experienced  in  my 
life,  Irving  said  he  thought  I  should  do,  and  it 
would  give  me  "  a  good  start  in  London."  I  told 
him  that  while  he  was  in  America  I  had  made  my 
first  London  appearance  at  the  Gaiety,  and  was 
a  "  failure." 

He  replied,  "  That  does  n't  affect  my  opinion  in 
the  slightest.  The  part  probably  did  n't  suit  you. 
How  much  salary  do  yOu  want?  " 

"Well,"  I  hesitatingly  replied,  "it's  different  to 
America,  where  I  've  made  a  success ;  they  don't 
know  me  here.  Would  ten  pounds  be  too  much? 
That 's  what  I  had  over  the  road,  at  The  Gaiety." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Irving,  "but  is  it  enough?" 

"Quite,"  I  replied.  I  didn't  tell  him  that  I 
would  have  played  the  part  for  nothing,  and  have 
willingly  given  a  premium  to  have  done  so  (if  I 
had  had  the  premium).  I  positively  received  £10 
a  week,  to  be  instructed  in  the  art  of  acting  by  the 

171 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

greatest  actor  of  our  time!  It  was  worth  hundreds 
to  me,  both  from  an  artistic  and  a  business  point  of 
view.  The  pains  and  trouble  Irving  took  with 
everyone  over  the  slightest  detail  were  remarkable. 
I  admit  he  was  very  trying  at  times,  especially  when 
I  was  doing  something  quietly  humorous  —  or 
rather,  nothing  —  and  he  would  gaze  on  me  very 
solemnly  and  say,  "  That 's  not  funny,  my  boy.  You 
must  do  something  funny  there." 

I  proved  to  him  however  on  the  first  night  that  sit- 
ting perfectly  still  on  the  staircase  looking  the  pic- 
ture of  misery  WAS  decidedly  funny;  at  least  the 
audience  thought  so,  so  much  so  that  the  great  chief 
said  to  me  afterwards,  "  What  were  you  doing  on  the 
staircase  that  made  the  audience  laugh  so  much?" 

"  Nothing,"  I  replied. 

"  All  right,  my  boy,  do  it  again,"  he  answered. 

He  was  always  struggling  to  get  a  certain  effect, 
and  he  would  never  rest  till  he  succeeded.  He  had  a 
way  of  putting  one  hand  on  your  shoulder  and  say- 
ing, "  My  boy,  use  your  brains!  What 's  the  matter 
with  you?  Are  you  in  love?  "  as  a  matter  of  fact  I 
was  at  the  time,  a  little,  and  I  think  I  generally  have 
been  more  or  less  in  that  condition  both  before  and 
since. 

Irving  would  say,  "  Now,  my  boy,  just  try  and 
concentrate  your  attention,  if  you  can  for  awhile, 
and  follow  my  instructions.  Whenever  I  bluster 
as  Macaire  you  must  always  echo  me!  See!  Imi- 
tate me!  Do  you  understand?  No,  I  see  you  don't! 
You  're  not  listening,  my  boy!  " 

"  Yes,  I  am,  Mr.  Irving,"  I  feebly  replied. 

"  Then  use  your  brains,"  he  said.  "  Now  you 
172 


HENRY   IRVING 

understand  you  've  got  to  imitate  me.  That 's  simple 
enough,  is  n't  it?  I  'm  the  swaggering  thief,  you  are 
the  timid  contemptible  thief,  but  when  I  swagger 
you  must  swagger  too,  you  must  imitate  me."  He 
meant  of  course  that  I  was  to  copy  the  swagger. 
I  wish  I  had  understood  his  meaning.  "  Now  then, 
are  you  ready?  "  he  shouted  loudly.  "  Good!  We 
don't  want  to  stop  the  rehearsal  again."  I  plead 
guilty  to  giving  a  mild  imitation  of  the  great  actor, 
and  was  preparing  my  feeble  mimicry,  when 
Irving,  as  Macaire,  got  into  position,  banged  the 
table  with  his  stick,  and  shouted  in  the  words  of 
the  play,  "  Hi,  Landlord,  Landlord,  why  the  devil 
don't  you  bring  some  refreshment  for  myself  and 
my  noble  friend  the  Marquis?  "  "  Go  on,"  he  said 
to  me  aside,  "  go  on!  " 

I  rushed  at  it,  hit  the  table,  and  gave  them  my 
regular,  conventional  back-drawing-room  imitation 
of  the  great  man  himself.  Jogging  my  head  and 
waving  my  hands  in  the  air,  I  shouted,  "Hi, 
hi  —  er  —  er  —  Landlord  —  er  —  er  —  why  the 
devil  —  er  —  er  —  er  —  don't  you  bring  —  er  —  er 
—  some  —  er  —  er  —  refreshment  —  er  —  for  — 
my  —  er  —  self  and  —  er  —  er  —  er."  I  never  got 
any  further.  Fifty  people  on  the  stage  collapsed  — 
some  with  fear,  others  with  laughter.  Never  had 
such  a  thing  been  known  within  the  sacred  walls  of 
the  Lyceum.  The  late  Harry  Loveday,  the  stage 
manager,  turned  pale  with  fright;  the  great  chief 
glared  at  me  for  a  moment  with  his  eyes  dilated, 
and  then  gave  me  a  push  saying,  "  Stupid  fellow! " 
He  practically  pushed  me  off  the  stage.  I  hesitated 
a  moment,  like  Lord  Arthur  in  the  "  Pantomime 

173 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

Rehearsal,"  and  then  threw  down  my  part  and  with 
dignity  walked  as  far  as  the  stage  door  with  the 
intention  of  leaving  the  Lyceum  for  ever,  but,  with- 
out stopping,  revolved  quickly  and  picked  up  the 
part  again  and  resumed  my  place  on  the  stage.  I 
thought  to  myself,  "  Resigning  the  part  won't  punish 
him."  For  I  knew  there  were  many  men  in  the 
company  who  were  dying  to  play  the  part,  and  who 
had  already  rehearsed  it.    "  I  '11  have  my  revenge 

on  the  chief  by  playing  it,  and  playing  it  d d 

well,  or  I  'm  much  mistaken." 

I  assumed  my  best  smile,  and  said,  "  It  's  awfully 
stupid  of  me,  sir,  but  I  think  if  Mr.  Loveday  will 
take  me  alone  in  the  part  for  half  an  hour  he  can 
make  it  all  clear  to  me  and  save  a  lot  of  your 
valuable  time." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Loveday,  much  relieved,  "  cer- 
tainly," and  we  went  on  to  the  next  scenes. 

We  all  had  a  pretty  bad  time  during  those 
rehearsals,  and  Martin  Harvey,  who  had  been  with 
Irving  for  some  years,  admitted  that  the  rehearsals 
of  Macaire  were  the  most  trying  that  he  had  ever 
been  through,  and  I  think  it  was  probably  the  anxiety 
of  engaging  a  man  like  myself  with  only  two  years' 
experience  on  the  stage  for  such  an  important  part 
that  was  responsible  for  the  chief's  ultra  irritability. 

At  last  the  first  night  came.  "The  Amber 
Heart "  by  Alfred  Calmour  played  by  Miss  Ellen 
Terry  and  George  Alexander,  preceded  "  Robert 
Macaire,"  which  began  at  nine,  and,  when  the  call 
boy  came  to  the  dressing  room,  which  I  was  sharing 
with  Wenman  and  Frank  Tyars,  and  announced 
"  Overture  and  beginners,"  I  felt  sick  and  ill  and 
174 


HENRY   IRVING 

would  have  given  fifty  pounds  to  the  other  men 
who  wanted  to  play  the  part  to  have  done  so. 
"  Good  luck,"  my  comrades  said.  "  Feeling  all 
right?  "  asked  Tyars,  genially.  "  Oh,  I  think  so," 
I  answered,  "  first  rate."  "  You  look  rather  pale," 
said  Wenman.  "  Oh,  that 's  the  make-up,"  I  said, 
"  I  've  got  to  look  pale,  you  know,"  and  I  slowly 
descended  the  stairs  to  the  stage. 

The  sensational  music  of  the  overture  was  boom- 
ing away,  and  when  the  curtain  rose  to  the  dancing 
and  the  shouts  of  the  merry  villagers,  oh,  how  I 
envied  them  their  good  spirits  and  light  hearts  1 

I  stood  at  the  wing  waiting  for  the  cue  to  enter. 
Presently  down  came  the  chief  from  his  dressing 
room,  looking  picturesque,  but  terrible,  as  the 
villainous  Macaire. 

Meredith  Ball,  the  musical  conductor,  had 
started  the  grotesquely  sensational  music  for  Robert 
Macaire's  entrance.  Irving  threw  back  the  lappets 
of  his  ragged  blue  coat,  gave  a  twist  to  his  snuff-box 
to  see  that  the  creaking  lid  was  working  all  right, — 
a  most  important  point,  for  when  the  timid  Mar- 
quis, Jacques  Strop,  was  several  times  on  the  point 
of  compromising  the  pair  of  them,  Macaire  gave  the 
snuff-box  a  twist  or  a  grind,  on  hearing  which 
Jacques  Strop  recovered  himself. 

But  before  Irving  made  his  entrance,  getting  up 
all  his  Macaire  swagger  and  throwing  his  stick 
under  his  left  arm,  he  turned  to  me  with  a  most 
encouraging  pat  on  the  shoulder,  and  with  a  sweet 
smile,  said,  "  You  're  all  right,  my  boy,  don't  be 
nervous " ;  but  I  noticed  that  his  own  right  hand, 
which  held  a  cigarette,  was  trembling. 

175 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

I  watched  him  from  the  wings  as  he  swaggered 
on  to  the  bridge.  Oh,  what  a  reception  he  hadl 
I  thought  it  would  never  finish;  then  the  music 
changed  to  a  quick  tremuloso — my  cue  —  and 
Macaire  waved  his  stick,  and  on  I  came  with  a 
rapid  run! 

What  an  evening  it  was,  an  evening  of  excitement 
both  in  front  and  behind  the  footlights! 

It  was  wonderful  how  Irving  held  the  audience, 
how  they  followed  every  word  and  gesture.  When 
he  was  planning  the  murder  of  the  rich  old  man 
staying  at  the  Inn,  he  sat  on  a  table  cutting  a  stick 
with  a  long  clasp  knife  and  leaning  over  Jacques 
Strop,  instructing  him  what  to  do,  and  in  a  whisper 
— which  could  be  heard  at  the  back  of  the  gallery  — 
he  said,  "  When  all  is  quiet  we  will  go  into  the  old 
man's  room,  No.  I J  and  collar  the  swag." 

"  But,"  I  said,  wiping  the  perspiration  from  my 
forehead,  "suppose  he  should  wake?" 

Irving  glanced  at  me,  then  to  the  left,  and  made 
a  pause  of  nearly  half  a  minute  before  he  answered; 
then  with  a  horrible  grin  he  slipped  lightly  off  the 
table,  and  with  a  turn  of  the  hand  the  blade  of  the 
knife  shut  with  a  snap,  and  placing  it  in  his  pocket, 
he  said,  "  He  won't  wake."  The  effect  he  produced 
by  this  simple  action  was  extraordinary,  and  made 
one's  flesh  positively  creep. 

Luckily  the  audience  took  to  me  at  once.  On 
my  first  exit  with  Irving  (for  we  always  went  on 
and  off  almost  together)  my  dresser  was  at  the  wing 
with  my  hand  looking-glass,  so  that  I  could  see 
that  my  make  up  was  presentable,  for  I  received 
a  lot  of  rough  handling  from  Macaire.  While  I 
176 


HENRY    IRVING 

was  holding  the  glass  in  front  of  me,  Irving  slapped 
me  on  the  back,  shouting,  "  Bravo,  my  boy,"  and 
knocked  the  glass  out  of  my  hand  and  broke  it. 
This  mascot  brought  me  good  luck  for  very  many 
years  afterwards  and  also,  I  hope,  to  Irving  him- 
self. I  have  that  glass  still;  it  was  broken  again 
on  the  first  night  of  "  The  New  Boy,"  which  play 
ran  for  fourteen  months. 

Irving's  realism  as  Macaire  was  something 
remarkable,  and  horrible  in  its  brutality,  and  before 
the  end  of  the  play  three  ladies  had  fainted,  and 
some  years  afterwards,  while  dining  with  my 
friends  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Theo.  Hoskin,  my  hostess 
told  me  she  had  fainted  on  the  first  night  of 
"  Macaire."  Towards  the  end  of  the  play  the 
cowardly  robber,  Jacques  Strop  (I  am  almost  in- 
variably cast  for  cowards,  cads,  and  snobs),  is 
carried  off  by  the  gendarme  screaming  with  fright 
at  the  vision  of  the  Guillotine  before  him,  whilst 
the  bold  braggart,  Macaire,  makes  a  stand  for  his 
life.  When  the  gendarmes  laid  hands  on  him, 
he  waved  them  off,  contemptuously  saying,  "  One 
moment,  gentlemen,  if  you  please;  I  will  go  with 
you  peacefully,  you  need  not  drag  the  clothes  from 
my  body.  Remember  I  am  a  gentleman!  "  and  on 
Sergeant  Loupy  ordering  his  men  to  release  their 
hold,  Macaire  thanked  them  and  took  his  snuff-box 
from  his  pocket,  and  in  the  style  of  a  first-class 
dandy  took  a  pinch,  saying  in  the  most  polite  man- 
ner, "  Gentlemen,  Robert  Macaire  is,  and  always 
has  been,  a  brave  and  bold  man  "  (suddenly  his  man- 
ner changes  into  the  manner  of  a  most  desperate 
Hooligan),  "And  so  he  will  die,"  and  threw  the 

177 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

contents  of  the  snuff-box  into  the  eyes  of  the  men 
who  had  arrested  him,  who,  being  blinded  for  the 
moment,  gave  Macaire  the  opportunity  of  escaping, 
which  he  accomplished  by  jumping  through  a  large 
window  at  the  back  of  the  room,  shattering  the 
glass  in  every  direction.  This  window,  the  late 
Harry  Loveday  told  me,  took  two  hours  putting 
together  every  day.  The  order  was  given  to  fire, 
and  the  soldiers  fired  their  carbines  through  the 
broken  window  and  soon  afterwards  Macaire 
appeared  at  the  door  like  a  wounded  wild  beast. 
1  have  never  seen  anything  more  awful  than  his 
appearance.  At  the  wing  some  bullock's  blood  was 
squeezed  over  his  head,  and  when  he  made  his 
appearance  at  the  door  with  a  horrible  scream  and 
a  groan,  the  blood  poured  down  his  hair  on  to  his 
face  and  clothes,  as  he  staggered  down  and  fell 
dead  on  the  stage  1 

This  "  bloody  business  "  was  cut  out  on  the  follow- 
ing night,  but  when  I  toured  the  provinces  with 
him  he  put  it  back  again  at  Manchester,  and  it  was 
a  great  success  there! 

His  performance  of  "  Macaire  "  was  a  master- 
piece 1  His  picturesque  appearance  as  the  black- 
guardly, ragged  ruffian,  his  terrific  swagger,  his 
brilliant  comedy,  and  his  intensely  grim  tragedy 
will  always  live  in  my  memory  as  the  most  artistic 
and  realistic  acting  it  has  ever  been  my  good  for- 
tune to  witness. 

In  the  provinces  "  Robert  Macaire  "  was  played 
only  twice  a  week,  on  Fridays  and  Saturdays,  and 
preceded  by  "  The  Bells."  There  was  never  a  per- 
formance for  which  hundreds  of  people  were  not 
178 


HENRY   IRVING 

turned  away.  It  was  indeed  a  splendid  programme, 
though  tremendously  hard  work  for  the  chief.  But 
that  did  n't  bother  him,  he  was  a  demon  for  work. 
On  other  nights  "  Faust "  was  played,  and  "  The 
Lyons  Mail  "  and  "  Louis  XL"  George  Alexander 
was  the  leading  juvenile  man  then,  and  Martin 
Harvey  also  played  important  parts. 

Never  have  I  played  with  any  actor  so  conscien- 
tious as  Henry  Irving.  Directly  he  stepped  on  the 
stage  as  Macaire,  till  the  curtain  fell  on  the  last 
act,  he  was  the  swaggering  brute.  He  seemed  to 
get  right  inside  the  character,  and  never  for  an 
instant  dropped  it.  He  used  to  say  to  me,  "  You 
are  not  to  know  there  is  an  audience,  you  must  look 
upon  them  as  cabbages,  and  remember,  my  friend, 
the  boy  who  has  paid  his  sixpence  at  the  back  of  the 
gallery  is  entitled  to  hear  as  well  as  anyone  in  the 
stalls.  Get  your  voice  out,  my  lad,  pitch  it  out." 
It  is  no  easy  matter  to  get  your  voice  to  travel  to 
the  back  of  the  pit  or  gallery,  and  the  same  time 
not  appear  to  be  shouting. 

Sir  Charles  Wyndham  gave  me  some  very  sound 
instruction  on  this  point  many  years  ago.  It  is  one 
of  the  most  difficult  achievements  on  the  stage  to 
appear  to  be  talking  naturally  as  one  would  in  a 
drawing  room  and  yet  be  heard  distinctly  at  the 
back  of  the  house. 

It's  very  easy  to  talk  quietly  and  naturally  for 
the  benefit  of  the  first  two  rows  of  the  stalls  and 
the  stage  boxes,  but  to  get  the  same  effect  to  the 
back  of  the  pit  of  a  large  theatre  is  another  matter 
altogether. 

I  was  lunching  one  day  at  a  Club  where  I  was 

179 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

an  honorary  member,  and  the  next  table  was 
occupied  by  some  young  men,  and  from  their  con- 
versation I  soon  gathered  they  had  been  playing 
in  amateur  theatricals  in  a  country  house.  They 
did  n't  know  me,  fortunately,  otherwise  their  conver- 
sation might  have  been  restricted  and  less  amusing. 

Three  of  them  were  singing  each  other's  praises 
to  a  fourth,  who  had  evidently  not  been  taking  part 
in  the  performances. 

"  I  wish  you  had  been  there,"  said  one.  "  Herbert 
was  wonderful!  Immense!"  "  My  dear  chap,  what 
price  you?"  Herbert  retorted,  "  I  've  never  seen  any- 
thing better  on  the  stage,  and  as  for  Birkendale, 
dear  old  sport,  he  could  have  wiped  the  floor  with 
the  best  comedian  going  and  swept  up  the  pieces." 
Then  they  all  talked  at  once,  shouting  each  other's 
praises.  Then  the  listener  summed  up  the  whole 
matter  by  saying,  "  My  dear  chaps,  you  need  n't 
tell  me,  /  know,  and  what  I  always  say  and  shall 
always  stick  to,  and  why  I  prefer  the  amateur  to 
the  professional  actor  is  because  the  amateur  speaks 
naturally  and  does  n't  shout.  The  actor  shouts, 
don't  cha  know!    Am  I  right?  " 

These  performances  had  taken  place  in  a  back 
drawing  room,  where  there  was  no  occasion  to 
shout.  The  depth  of  the  room  would  equal  five 
rows  of  stalls  at  a  theatre,  after  allowing  six  feet 
from  the  footlights,  and  seven  feet  space  for  the 
band.  No  dress  circle,  no  pit  or  gallery  to  pitch 
your  voice  up  to.  It  is  indeed  easy  to  act  under 
these  circumstances  and  appear  to  be  "very  natural." 

There  are  amateurs  and  amateurs.  I  don't  at  all 
agree  with  an  old  theatrical  saying  that  "a  bad 
1 80 


HENRY    IRVING 

professional  is  better  than  a  good  amateur."  There 
are  professionals  who  have  been  on  the  stage  for  a 
dozen  years  or  more  who  will  never  be  sound  actors. 
And  there  are  amateurs  in  whom  the  acting  gift  is 
born,  who  could  take  their  place  at  once  on  the  pro- 
fessional stage  and  get  a  good  salary  and  deserve  it. 

Leo  Trevor,  for  instance,  is  a  splendid  low 
comedian  with  a  strong  personality  suited  to  parts 
of  the  W.  S.  Penley  order  and  could  command  a 
good  salary;  the  late  Augustus  Spalding,  a  light 
comedian,  not  so  very  far  behind  Charles  Matthews, 
and  Colonel  George  Nugent  as  an  eccentric  come- 
dian, is  "  top  hole,"  and  the  two  Ponsonbys,  Claud 
and  Eustace,  and  Colonel  Newnham  Davis  are 
of  the  very  first  water.  Mrs.  Willie  James, 
Miss  Muriel  Wilson,  Lady  Fitzwilliam,  and 
Miss  Faith  Dawnay  are  quite  professional  in 
technique  and  could  also  command  good  salaries. 
Mrs.  O'Hagan  is  also  very  experienced  and  attrac- 
tive. There  are  also  Burford  Morrison,  Major 
Jeffcock,  Hugh  Brodie,  the  Berry  Brothers,  and 
dozens  of  others  who  are  equally  talented. 

While  touring  with  Irving  I  met  George  Alexan- 
der and  Bram  Stoker  in  New  Street,  Birmingham, 
one  day,  outside  a  small  hall  where  a  showman  was 
announcing  at  the  top  of  his  voice  that  they  were 
"  just  about  to  commence."  A  magnificent  African 
lion  was  pictured  waltzing  with  the  lion  tamer. 
Alexander  decided  to  see  the  performance,  went  in, 
and  was  charged  sixpence.  I  followed,  paying  the 
same  amount,  but  Bram  Stoker  was  only  asked  four- 
pence — why  I  have  never  known.  Bram  Stoker  was 
always  well  dressed,  and  looked  worth  the  sixpence, 

181 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

but  perhaps  the  showman  thought  he  was  poor  as  he 
was  dressed  in  black.  We  all  stood  round  the  lion's 
cage  in  a  back-yard,  where  a  tent  had  been  erected, 
and  the  trainer,  dressed  in  pink  fleshings  and  a 
spangled  belt,  informed  us  briefly  that "  the  lion  was 
the  largest  and  the  fiercest  it  had  ever  been  his  good 
fortune  to  master."  A  little  boy  said,  "  'As  he  ever 
ate  anyone?"  The  lion  tamer,  though  a  little  an- 
noyed at  being  interrupted,  condescended  to  inform 
the  lad  that  the  noble  beast  had  been  responsible  for 
the  deaths  of  several  human  beings,  both  black  and 
white,  and  many  were  injured  during  his  capture. 
He  then  drew  the  curtains  aside,  and  we  were  all 
bound  to  admit  that  the  lion  was  a  magnificent 
creature.  He  seemed  in  a  very  bad  temper,  per- 
haps it  was  the  look  of  the  house,  the  audience 
consisting  of  only  nine  persons,  all  told. 

The  noble  beast  was  snarling  and  giving  us  a 
good  view  of  his  great  teeth,  and  when  he  pressed 
against  the  bars  of  the  cage  they  seemed  to  give 
with  his  weight.  In  fact,  it  all  looked  very  danger- 
ous, and  I  was  turning  over  in  my  mind  whether 
I  would  n't  have  a  cigarette  outside,  when  the  lion 
tamer  seized  a  strong  whip,  opened  the  cage  door, 
and  leapt  in.  He  struck  the  usual  professional  atti- 
tude, and  then  slashed  the  whip  several  times  at  the 
lion's  legs,  who  in  response  sprang  at  him,  throwing 
him  to  the  ground.  For  a  moment  we  thought  it 
was  part  of  the  business,  but  only  for  a  moment; 
in  another  second,  with  extraordinary  acrobatic 
skill,  the  tamer  had  twisted  from  under  the  lion 
and  was  out  of  the  cage,  but  unfortunately  he 
omitted  to  close  the  door  after  him.  I  have  often 
182 


HENRY   IRVING 

seen  a  crowd  leave  a  theatre  hurriedly  after  a  bad 
performance.  I  have  seen  guests  at  a  party  rushing 
for  the  door  to  get  to  the  supper  rooms  when  a 
gentleman  has  announced  that  he  will  recite  "  The 
Pit's  Mouth  "  or  "  The  Pride  of  Battery  B."  But 
never  have  I  seen  a  place  emptied  with  such 
rapidity  as  that  tent  was.  I  did  not  wait  to  ask 
for  my  money  back  —  there  being  no  performance 
—  nor  did  anyone  else,  I  fancy.  In  three  seconds  I 
was  in  New  Street,  where  I  saw  George  Alexander 
and  Bram  Stoker  jumping  on  to  a  passing  bus, 
Stoker  shouting  to  the  conductor,  "  Don't  stop  for 
us,  please,  we  can  jump  on."  I  went  into  the  nearest 
shop,  it  was  an  estate  agent's,  and  I  closed  the  door 
after  me  because  of  the  draught  —  for  no  other 
reason. 

George  Alexander  —  now  Sir  George  —  and  a 
member  of  the  County  Council,  may  deny  the  vera- 
city of  this  story,  but  it  is  absolutely  true.  Ask  Lady 
Alexander,  I  am  sure  she  will  stand  by  me. 

After  a  most  delightful  engagement  with  Henry 
Irving  for  four  months  in  London  and  about  the 
same  time  in  the  Provinces,  this  splendid  experi- 
ence came  to  an  end.  I  so  enjoyed  the  artistic 
atmosphere  of  his  management  that  I  should  have 
liked  to  remain  with  him  as  long  as  possible,  but 
his  next  production  was  "  Macbeth,"  and  the  only 
chance  for  me  was  to  play  one  of  the  "  Witches," 
which,  under  the  circumstances,  would  have  been 
a  waste  of  his  money  and  my  time,  so  I  accepted 
an  offer  from  Richard  Mansfield,  who  had  just 
arrived  in  England.  I  left  Henry  Irving  with 
great  regret  on  the  Saturday  at  Birmingham. 

183 


CHAPTER   XV 

Engagements.  Eric  Lewis.  Canonbury  House. 
Brandon  Thomas.  The  New  Butler. 
A.   W.    Pinero.     An   Accident.     Poetrt 

I  OPENED  with  Mansfield  on  the  Monday 
at  Liverpool,  playing  the  "  Dude  "  in  "  Prince 
Karl." 
We  played  this  piece  the  following 
week  at  the  Globe  Theatre,  London.  After  that 
1  played  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite  in  the  "  School  for 
Scandal,"  with  Kate  Vaughan  as  Lady  Teazle, 
and  a  charming  performance  it  was.  She  was 
the  perfection  of  grace.  Every  action  and  move- 
ment was  a  picture  in  itself.  Sullivan,  the 
American  actor,  played  Joseph,  H.  L.  Herbert 
played  Charles,  and  Lai  Brough,  Moses. 

We  were  doing  this  whilst  Mansfield  was  pre- 
paring "  Richard  III."  He  asked  me  to  play  the 
Lord  Mayor! 

The  part  of  the  Lord  Mayor  is  worth  "  one,  one  " 
a  week,  but  Mansfield  said  he  was  willing  to  give 
me  the  same  salary  I  had  had  with  Henry  Irving. 
This  generosity  was  greatly  appreciated  by  me. 
The  Lord  Mayor  has  only  a  line  or  two  to  say,  but 
Mansfield  said,  "  by  introducing  business  he  would 
make  the  part  more  important."  The  business  he 
suggested  was,  that,  as  I  crossed  the  stage  in  the 
"  Crosby  Hall "  scene  with  my  wand  of  office,  he 
184 


Photo  Alfrtd F.Ui 
WEEDON    GKOSSM1TH    AS    PERCY    I'ALFREYMAN    IN    "WEALTH" 


ENGAGEMENTS 

would  have  had  several  holes  cut  in  the  stage,  so  that 
when  I  placed  the  wand  down  on  the  floor  it  would 
disappear.  Even  that  opportunity  of  being  funny 
did  n't  tempt  me,  so  for  the  second  time  I  was 
bowled  out  of  a  theatre  by  Shakespeare.  But  I 
have  found  in  my  experience  in  this  wonderful 
world  that  things  frequently  happen  for  the  best, 
though  we  don't  always  think  so  at  the  time. 

The  next  day  Beerbohm  Tree  engaged  me  to  play 
in  Henry  Arthur  Jones'  play,  "  Wealth." 

The  part  was  that  of  Percy  Palf  reyman,  a  dread- 
ful young  loafing,  betting,  city  clerk.  I  was  quite 
a  success,  and  Tree  would  have  liked  me  to  remain 
in  his  company  for  the  next  production,  as  I  would 
most  gladly  have  done,  but  alas !  Shakespeare  again 
stood  in  my  way,  which  again  happened  for  the 
best,  for  a  fortnight  after  I  left  Tree  I  opened  at 
the  Court  Theatre,  under  the  joint  management  of 
Mrs.  John  Wood  —  known  to  her  intimates  as  "  Ma 
Wood,"  —  and  Arthur  Chudleigh,  in  Ralph  Lum- 
ley's  farce,  "  Aunt  Jack,"  in  which  Mrs.  John  Wood 
was  superb.  I  have  never  seen  anyone  to  equal  her 
in  her  particular  line.  Arthur  Cecil,  Eric  Lewis, 
Allan  Aynesworth  (I  think  his  first  London  engage- 
ment), and  Florence  Wood  (afterwards  Mrs. 
Ralph  Lumley)  were  in  the  cast.  It  was  a  most 
delightful  engagement,  and  the  piece  ran  a  year. 

We  felt  we  were  in  for  a  long  run  directly  after 
the  first  night.  So  Eric  Lewis  and  myself  decided 
to  take  rooms  at  Datchet  for  the  summer,  coming 
to  town  every  night  by  the  seven  o'clock  train.  Eric 
Lewis  was  desirous  of  coming  to  town  by  an  earlier 
train,  he  was  quite  right  too,  but  I  told  him  the 

185 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

train  had  never  been  late  and  there  was  no  reason 
why  it  should  be  now.  On  the  third  night  of  the  run 
we  started  by  the  seven  o'clock  train  to  town,  and 
all  went  well  until  we  got  nearly  to  Clapham 
Junction,  and  then  we  halted  for  ten  minutes, 
which  grew  into  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  We  com- 
menced to  get  alarmed.  It  went  on  another  hundred 
yards,  then  stopped  again.  Then  we  heard  that 
there  had  been  an  accident  at  Vauxhall.  A  few 
more  yards,  then  half  an  hour's  wait.  At  last,  when 
we  got  within  five  hundred  yards  of  Vauxhall 
station,  Eric  Lewis  and  I  jumped  out  of  the  train 
and  ran  along  the  line  to  the  platform.  It  was  then 
nine  o'clock.  The  exact  time  of  the  rise  of  the 
curtain  I  !  We  jumped  into  a  hansom  and  tore 
along  the  streets,  much  to  my  dislike,  for  I  have 
always  been  afraid  of  hansoms,  I  have  had  so  many 
accidents.  We  arrived  at  the  Court  Theatre  at  ten 
minutes  past  nine.  There  were  no  understudies 
ready  at  such  an  early  stage  of  the  run,  so  Chud- 
leigh  was,  no  doubt,  thinking  he  would  have  to 
make  a  speech,  and  dismiss  the  huge  audience  from 
the  theatre,  which  was  crowded  from  floor  to  ceil- 
ing. When-we  arrived  there,  standing  at  the  stage 
door  were  Chudleigh,  his  brother  Lillies,  and 
Teddy  Jones,  the  musical  conductor,  who  had 
played  the  overtures  twice  and  was  asking  what  he 
had  "  better  do  now?  " 

Lewis,  as  pale  as  death,  shouted,  "  I  am  ready  to 
go  on  as  I  am,  so  you  can  ring  up,"  which  they 
did,  forgetting  that  I  came  on  half  a  minute  after- 
wards and  had  to  put  on  a  frock  coat  and  a  pair  of 
side  whiskers.  I  did  this  as  I  left  the  dressing  room 
186 


ERIC   LEWIS 

for  the  stage  —  it  was  a  wonder  they  did  not  drop 
off  with  fright. 

Eric  Lewis  has  never  forgotten  what  he  consid- 
ered to  be  a  great  injustice.  Just  before  he  went  on 
the  stage,  all  out  of  breath  and  faint  with  hurrying, 
he  encountered  Mrs.  John  Wood,  who  admonished 
him  most  severely.  "  Such  a  disgraceful  and  wanton 
act  as  to  endeavour  to  kill  a  great  success  in  its 
infancy,  by  abominable,  indifferent  neglect  of  duty, 
unworthy  of  a  novice,  and  he  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  himself."  He  was  so  flustered,  poor  fellow,  that 
when  he  went  on  the  stage  he  could  n't  remember 
the  words,  and  was  what  we  call  "  fluffing  "  all  over 
the  place,  and  what  seemed  to  him  so  unjust  was 
that,  the  door  of  the  scene  being  open,  he  could 
see  Mrs.  Wood.  She  embraced  me,  and  he  heard 
her  say,  "  Never  mind,  my  dear,  don't  worry,  you  've 
plenty  of  time;  it  does  n't  matter  how  late  you  are, 
dear,  so  long  as  you  've  arrived."  No  wonder  he 
dried  up. 

Eric  Lewis  is  one  of  the  kindest  and  most  gentle 
creatures  alive,  but  he  is  horribly  sensitive  and  often 
imagines  What  is  said  as  a  joke  to  be  in  earnest,  and 
will  walk  out  of  the  Garrick  Club,  where  he  is 
a  great  favourite,  and  not  return  for  several  months, 
merely  for  a  chance  word  or  even  a  look.  A  well- 
known  actor  says  Lewis  is  "  out  for  hurts." 

Eric  Lewis  once  said  to  me,  "  I  'm  the  most  un- 
popular man  in  London."  I  replied,  "  I  don't 
believe  it.  I  have  only  heard  one  man  ever  say 
that."  "  Who  was  it?  "  eagerly  asked  Lewis.  "  Du 
Maurier?  or  Brookfield?"  "Neither,"  I  said. 
"  It  was  yourself." 

187 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

Lewis  made  an  enormous  hit  a  few  years  ago  in 
Sutro's  play,  "  Mollentrave  on  Women,"  and  was 
enthusiastically  called  before  the  curtain  several 
times  on  the  first  night.  He  told  Sutro  that  it  was 
the  only  time  he  had  ever  had  a  call  to  himself, 
and  when  he  returned  to  his  rooms  after  the  per- 
formance, he  had  no  one  to  tell  his  success  to,  so  he 
took  his  father's  photograph  off  the  mantelpiece 
and  told  it  to  him. 

My  success  in  "  Aunt  Jack  "  seemed  to  hold  out 
the  promise  of  a  lengthy  engagement  from  Mrs. 
John  Wood  and  Arthur  Chudleigh,  and  I  felt 
justified  in  making  arrangements  for  the  future,  in 
somewhat  launching  out  and  increasing  my  expen- 
diture. On  my  return  from  America  my  brother 
Gee-Gee  had  most  kindly  invited  me  to  spend  a 
few  weeks  at  his  house  in  Dorset  Square  until  I 
was  settled.  That  visit  lasted  eighteen  months.  I 
was  very  happy,  I  hope  Gee-Gee  was  too.  We  did 
not  see  so  very  much  of  each  other,  as  I  was  paint- 
ing all  day  at  my  "  Studio  in  the  Wood  "  and  dining 
at  my  Club  before  going  to  the  theatre  in  the 
evening,  but  I  always  hurried  back  after  the  per- 
formance—  or  nearly  always  —  to  spend  a  cheery 
hour  chatting  to  my  brother  and  his  delightful  wife, 
known  to  all  her  huge  circle  of  friends  as 
"  Rosa,"  —  one  of  the  kindest  and  best  of  women, 
now  alas,  gone,  and  sadly  missed. 

Happy  as  I  was  in  my  comfortable  quarters,  my 
conscience  at  last  came  to  my  brother's  rescue,  and 
I  felt  that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  remain  any 
longer  as  his  non-paying  guest.  So  I  looked  out  for 
a  house,  with  a  room  big  enough  to  be  used  as  a 
[88 


MRS.  JOHN    WOOD 
From  an  early  oil  painting 


CANONBURY   HOUSE 

studio,  and  acting  on  the  suggestion  of  the  late 
Charles  Townley,  the  well  known  popular  author 
of  many  pantomimes,  and  writer  of  songs,  I  saw  — 
liked,  and  took  The  Old  House  at  Canonbury,  which 
is  Islington  way. 

It  will  not  be  out  of  place  to  say  here  that  old 
houses,  old  furniture  and  old  books  are,  and  always 
have  been,  amongst  my  numerous  hobbies.  I  may 
also  mention  old  firearms  of  which  I  own  a  con- 
siderable number. 

Canonbury  House,  of  which  "  The  Old  House  " 
was  a  part,  was  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth  the 
country  house  of  Sir  Richard  Spencer,  then  Lord 
Mayor  of  London;  his  town  house  was  Crosby 
Hall. 

The  house  had  been  "  Adamized  "  about  the  year 
1780,  and  Flaxman  medallions,  fine  carved  marble 
mantelpieces,  and  mahogany  doors  had  been  added, 
all  good  examples  of  their  kind,  but  the  little  "  with- 
drawing room  of  the  XVI  century "  remained 
untouched. 

It  was  a  delightful  old  place  with  a  charming 
old-fashioned,  rather  wild-looking  garden,  full  of 
trees  and  shrubs,  covering  nearly  an  acre  of 
ground.  This  garden  I  subsequently  greatly  im- 
proved by  making  a  pond,  in  which  numbers  of 
carp,  golden  tench,  roach  and  gudgeon  disported 
themselves  sheltered  by  the  spreading  leaves  of 
quantities  of  water  lilies;  and  a  fountain  rose 
proudly  in  the  centre,  fed  by  the  New  River  Com- 
pany (at  some  expense). 

I  take  this  opportunity  of  warning  all  those  who 
contemplate  making  a  pond  to  consider  the  matter 

189 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

very  seriously  and  reconsider  it,  unless  their  bank- 
ing account  is  of  the  most  substantial  and  elastic 
order. 

The  Old  House  belongs  to  the  Marquis  of  North- 
ampton and  was  held  on  a  long  lease  by  the  late 
Mr.  Wagstaffe,  a  wealthy  gentleman  then  residing 
at  Potton  in  Bedfordshire.  I  think  he  had  a  great 
sense  of  humour,  for  on  the  expiration  of  my  lease, 
after  living  there  for  ten  years  and  having  spent  a 
lot  of  money  on  the  house  and  grounds,  I  asked 
him  what  he  was  going  to  allow  me  in  consid- 
eration of  the  large  sums  of  money  I  had  expended 
on  the  pond,  and,  characteristic  of  his  generosity,  he 
replied  that  he  had  no  wish  to  be  hard  on  me,  and 
as  I  had  always  been  a  trustworthy  and  respectable 
tenant,  he  would  not  compel  me,  as  he  was  entitled 
by  law  to  do,  to  "  fill  it  up." 

I  frightened  the  gentleman  to  death  by  declaring 
I  would  fill  it  up,  but  I  need  hardly  say  I  did  not, 
for  I  had  no  intention  of  destroying  the  beauties  of 
the  pond,  which  time  and  nature  had  made  so 
picturesque.  So  I  let  it  remain  as  it  was,  and  the 
next  tenant  had  the  benefit  of  it,  but  I  believe  the 
rent  was  raised. 

Before  I  made  the  pond,  my  neighbour,  Miss 
Minasi  (the  head  of  the  high  school  for  young 
ladies,  a  beautiful  house  next  to  mine)  when  she  saw 
bricks  and  slates  piled  up  in  the  garden  half  the 
length  of  the  house,  thought  I  was  going  to  build  a 
studio. 

It  is  a  very  difficult  matter  to  make  a  pond  water- 
tight. I  had  tried  to  do  it  before  on  a  cheaper  scale 
and  hopelessly  failed.  Most  of  the  excavations 
190 


CANONBURY    HOUSE 

were  dug  out  by  Tom  Heslewood  —  the  eminent 
designer  of  costumes  —  and  myself,  and  splendid 
exercise  it  was,  but  all  the  scientific  and  skilled 
work  was  done  by  King  of  Great  Portland  Street 
and  his  merry  men,  and  for  weeks  and  weeks  my 
pretty  garden  resembled  a  brickfield.  But  when 
the  pond  was  finished  it  was  an  enormous  improve- 
ment, and  to  me  worth  everything  it  cost,  which 
was  several  hundred  pounds,  —  a  fortune  to  me  at 
that  period. 

My  friend  Tom  Heslewood  was  staying  with  me 
at  Canonbury  and  we  were  painting  together  in  the 
daytime.  I  still  had  the  "  pond  "  fever  very  badly, 
and  when  later  on  I  struck  oil  with  a  play  called 
"  The  New  Boy,"  I  made  plans  for  cutting  a  canal 
from  the  narrow  end  of  the  pond  right  up  to  the 
steps  at  the  drawing  room  window,  a  distance  of 
about  sixty  feet,  and  we  started  digging  in  earnest, 
but  the  business  at  the  theatre  suddenly  fell  off, 
and  I  wisely  decided  to  abandon  further  enlarge- 
ments of  the  pond,  and  we  put  the  turf  back  in  its 
place. 

I  don't  know  why,  but  we  always  kept  a  large 
stock  of  fireworks  in  a  tool  house  at  Canonbury; 
I  used  to  buy  up  a  quantity  at  a  quarter  the  ordinary 
price  a  few  weeks  after  the  5th  of  November,  and 
on  the  slightest  provocation  a  birthday  was  cele- 
brated by  the  discharge  of  a  rocket.  One  night, 
about  twelve  o'clock,  Tom  Heslewood  and  myself 
had  just  lighted  a  very  fine  large  Roman  candle 
which  was  throwing  up  coloured  balls  as  high  as 
the  house,  and  one  or  two  hit  the  staircase  window 
of  Miss  Crease,  one  of  my  neighbours,  whose  house 

191 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

looked  on  to  my  garden.  Shortly  afterwards  an  old 
alarm  bell  was  set  ringing  at  Miss  Crease's  house, 
then  whistles  were  blown  and  policemen  came  rush- 
ing from  every  direction.  One  of  them  saw  us  from 
a  wall  he  had  mounted  and  shouted,  "  Burglars! 
If  anyone  gets  over  the  wall  into  your  garden,  knock 
him  down."  "You  do  that,  Heslewood,"  I  said, 
"  while  I  go  round  to  the  front  of  the  house."  Miss 
Crease  had  declared  that  burglars  were  on  the  stair- 
case in  her  house  with  lights  in  their  hands  I  We 
suddenly  realised  that  it  must  have  beeen  our  fire- 
works which  had  caused  all  the  trouble  and  excite- 
ment. This  she  would  n't  believe  for  a  moment  and 
positively  declared  she  had  seen  the  men.  It  is 
marvellous  what  tricks  the  imagination  will  play 
one  I 

We  celebrated  that  jovial,  good  natured  comedian, 
Herbert  Campbell's  birthday,  one  night,  and  my 
servant,  Smith,  proceeded  to  light  a  huge  Jack-in- 
the-box.  It  was  one  we  had  had  stored  some  time 
in  the  tool  house  and  was  damp,  and  directly  he 
placed  a  light  to  it,  it  went  off  all  at  once  and  after 
the  explosion  there  was  nothing  visible  but  a  thick 
cloud  of  black  smoke.  Herbert  Campbell  said, 
"Where's  Smith?"  —  we  couldn't  see  him,  but 
we  heard  him  say  to  his  wife,  "  Mrs.  Smith,  have 
you  got  a  big  bit  of  sticking  plaster?  " 

One  night,  on  the  eve  of  a  dinner  party  I  was 
giving,  I  heard  a  lot  of  mumbling  and  grumbling 
going  on,  so  I  quickly  gathered  that  something  had 
gone  wrong.  Presently  I  heard  Mrs.  Smith  say  to 
her  husband,  "  It  *s  not  my  fault.  You  had  better 
tell  the  Master." 
192 


BRANDON   THOMAS 

"  No,  Mrs.  Smith,  it 's  none  of  my  business,"  he 
answered. 

"  What 's  wrong?  "  I  asked.  "  Has  n't  the  fish 
arrived,  or  have  you  upset  the  soup?  " 

"  No  sir,  it 's  not  that,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  almost 
crying.    "  You  tell  the  Master,  Smith." 

"  Come  on,  out  with  it,"  I  said. 

"Well,  sir,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Smith,  "Smith  ought 
to  have  mentioned  it  early  in  the  week  and  he  forgot 
to  do  so.  I  know  you  '11  be  angry,  but  I  'm  sorry  to 
say  we  've  run  short  of  fireworks  I  " 

"  What!  "  I  said,  "  impossible!  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  "  there  is  only  a 
packet  or  two  of  small  squibs  and  a  few  Catherine 
wheels,  but  not  a  rocket  in  the  place,"  and  she  quite 
burst  into  tears. 

"  Disgraceful,"  I  said.  "  Directly  the  cloth  is 
removed  for  dessert,  go  to  the  Essex  Road,  and 
knock  the  people  up  if  they  have  gone  to  bed,  and 
procure  some  rockets.    We  must  have  some." 

Smith  was  quite  successful  and  after  dinner  we 
lighted  up  the  neighbourhood  —  and  roused  it  too! 

It  was  at  Canonbury  that  Brandon  Thomas  got 
an  idea  which  he  introduced  into  his  famous  play, 
"  Charley's  Aunt."  I  had  had  a  dinner  party  and 
as  the  guests  were  leaving,  Brandon  whispered  to 
me,  "  Old  chap,  could  you  lend  me  five  shillings?  " 

I  presumed  he  wanted  it  for  a  cab.  "  Delighted," 
I  replied,  but  discovered  I  had  no  change.  "  One 
minute,"  I  said,  and  got  hold  of  Smith,  who  always 
carried  about  a  bag  with  a  goodish  amount  of  silver 
therein.  "  Smith,"  I  asked  him,  "  have  you  got 
five  shillings  about  you?  " 

193 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

"Yes,  sir,  certainly,  sir,"  and  he  handed  me  a 
large  new  five-shilling  piece.  "  I  am  rather  glad 
to  part  with  him,  in  a  way;  it 's  heavy  and  I  would 
rather  have  it  smaller,  it 's  sometimes  difficult  to 
change,"  he  said  as  I  took  it.  I  returned  to  Bran- 
don and  slipped  the  five-shilling  piece  into  his 
hand.    He  thanked  me  and  wished  me  good-night. 

When  all  the  guests  had  departed  I  observed 
Smith  grinning,  and  he  said,  holding  the  five-shil- 
ling piece  in  hand,  "  I  've  got  it  back  again,  sir! 
See  what  Mr.  Thomas  gave  me." 

The  Smiths  remained  with  me  a  good  long  time 
after  these  events,  and  when  they  retired,  several 
years  after  my  marriage,  they  went  to  live  in  a 
charming  little  place  of  their  own  in  Somerset- 
shire, surrounded  with  cows,  pigs,  fowls,  and  ducks, 
to  say  nothing  of  a  cart  and  horse,  etc.,  and  several 
acres  of  land.  They  are  the  most  industrious  couple 
I  have  ever  known  and  well  deserve  to  spend 
the  remainder  of  their  lives  in  peaceful  comfort, 
but  work  is  to  them,  I  honestly  believe,  the  very 
breath  of  life.  They  occasionally  pay  us  a  flying 
visit,  one  at  a  time,  and  Mrs.  Smith  manages  some- 
how to  see  three  plays,  a  Music  Hall,  and  all  the 
sights  in  the  short  space  of  a  couple  of  days. 

We  once  had  a  very  nice  couple  as  butler  and 
cook,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Adams.  Adams  had  been  at 
Blenheim,  (I  think  in  one  of  the  lodges)  but  he 
took  good  care  to  let  me  know  he  had  come  from  a 
Palace,  and  generally  prefixed  his  remarks  with: 
"  When  I  was  at  Blenheim."  We  were  giving  a 
small  dinner  to  Toole  and  some  other  old  friends, 
and  Adams,  who  had  been  in  the  house  only  a  few 
194 


■■^■^■■t 


THE   NEW   BUTLER 

days,  became  very  fussy.  He  opened  the  cham- 
pagne half  an  hour  before  dinner  and  corked  it  up 
again.  "  At  Blenheim  they  did  n't  like  the  '  fizz  ' 
on  the  wine."  "  They "  generally  decanted  it. 
When  it  was  poured  out  it  was  as  flat  as  hock 
and  tasted  very  like  it.  Shortly  before  the  guests 
arrived  he  came  to  me  in  great  consternation.  I 
was  afraid  he  was  going  to  have  a  fit. 

"What's  up?"     I  said. 

He  gasped,  out  of  breath,  "These  girls"  (the 
maids  he  was  referring  to)  "  have  amazed  me!  " 

"  What  about?  "  I  asked. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  "  I  have  never  had  such  an  ex- 
perience all  the  years  I  was  at  Blenheim." 

"  This  is  not  Blenheim,"  I  said.  "  There  is  very 
little  resemblance.  The  house  is  not  so  big  and 
not  nearly  so  well  pictured,  and  indeed  the  grounds 
are  smaller." 

"  Quite  so,  sir,"  he  answered,  faintly  smiling 
at  my  joke,  "  but  surely  I  am  not  to  be  belittled  by 
these  bits  of  girls." 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  said.    "  What 's  the  matter?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Adams,  very  much  on  his  dignity, 
"  surely,  sir,  you  don't  expect  me  to  serve  the  vege- 
tables.  For  that 's  what  the  report  is  in  the 
kitchen." 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  replied.  "  I  shall  see  how  I 
feel.     I  shall  probably  serve  them  myself!  " 

Later  on,  when  one  of  the  maids  said  he  was  ex- 
pected to  light  up  the  Roman  candles  while  I  was 
sending  up  the  rockets,  his  disgust  knew  no  bounds; 
but  he  was  such  a  good  chap  that  although  I  told 
him  I  did  n't  wish  him  to  have  anything  to  do  with 

195 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

the  fireworks,  unless  he  liked,  he  made  a  start  on  a 
Jack-in-the-box,  and  was  so  pleased  with  the  result 
that  it  was  all  I  could  do  afterwards  to  keep  him  off 
them.    He  was  a  demon  at  it! 

Mrs.  Clay-Ker-Seymer  was  very  fascinated 
by  my  fireworks  and  would  insist  on  firing  off 
large  squibs,  and  when  I  cautioned  her  to  "  let 
go  "  before  the  bang  came,  she  replied,  "  Poor  boy, 
I  let  off  fireworks  before  you  were  born  I"  Just 
at  that  moment  one  burst  in  her  hand,  but  even  that 
did  not  deter  her. 

A  very  cheery  cabman  drove  me  home  one  night 
in  a  four-wheeler,  and  after  having  had  a  good  look 
at  me,  he  exclaimed,  "Ah!  I  thought  I  wasn't 
mistaken.  It's  Mr.  Weldon  Goldsmith,  isn't 
it?" 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  that 's  near  enough." 

"  Ah ! "  he  went  on,  "  I  thought  I  was  right. 
And,"  he  continued,  "  it  may  interest  you  to  know, 
sir,  that  my  wife  also  used  to  be  in  the  profession." 

"  Really,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  he  answered.  "  She  used  to  swim 
in  the  tank  at  the  Aquarium  with  the  Beckwith 
family!  !" 

But,  to  return  to  the  Court  Theatre.  After  the 
run  of  "  Aunt  Jack,"  the  next  play  to  be  pro- 
duced was  "  The  Cabinet  Minister,"  by  A.  W. 
Pinero. 

"Is  there  a  part  for  me?"  I  inquired  of  Mrs. 
Wood. 

"  I  hope  so,"  she  answered,  "  but  I  don't  know. 
You  had  better  go  and  see  Pinero."  I  did  so  the 
next  day,  and  was  shown  into  his  pretty  little  draw- 
196 


I'lloto  Elliott  i~  l~r\ 
WEEDON    GROSSMITH    AS  JOSEPH    LEBANON    IN    "THE    CABINET    MINISTER 


A.   W.    PINERO 

ing  room  in  a  charming  house  of  the  bijou  type  in 
St.  John's  Wood  Road,  opposite  Lord's  Cricket 
Ground,  where  he  lived  then. 

Pinero  said  he  feared  there  was  no  part  for  me, 
but  having  been  prompted  by  Mrs.  John  Wood,  I 
asked  if  there  was  n't  the  part  of  a  money-lender  in 
the  play  that  might  suit  me.  But  Pinero  answered 
there  was  such  a  part,  but  it  was  intended  for  Jack 
Clayton,  and  should  be  played  by  a  big  man.  I 
was  very  obstinate,  and  said  that  the  money-lenders 
I  had  met  professionally  and  otherwise  were  mostly 
small  men,  and  proceeded  to  give  him  my  idea 
of  how  I  should  play  and  dress  the  up-to-date  West 
End  money-lender.  I  noticed,  during  my  descrip- 
tion, he  never  moved  his  eagle  eyes  from  me,  and 
they  seemed  to  bore  through  me  like  a  gimlet. 
"  Very  well,"  he  said  at  last,  "  come  down  to-mor- 
row and  have  a  try!  Rehearsal  at  eleven  sharp." 
I  left  the  house  with  the  firm  intention  of  holding 
on  to  him,  like  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  and  never 
letting  go  till  I  had  played  the  part,  which  I  did. 

I  think  it  was  the  best  part  I  have  ever  played. 
I  made  the  character  a  fashionable,  rather  vulgar, 
cheery  man  of  business,  and  I  am  happy  to  say  that 
no  one  appreciated  the  performance  more  than  my 
Jewish  friends,  and  I  have  many,  and  I  never  lost 
one  of  them  through  that  performance,  as  it  gave 
no  offence  to  anyone. 

I  never  saw  Mrs.  Wood  to  better  advantage  than 
as  Lady  Twombley.  What  a  good  cast  it  was! 
Arthur  Cecil,  Allan  Aynesworth,  Brandon  Thomas 
as  The  Macphail  (a  superb  performance),  Herbert 
Waring,  Mrs.  Cecil  Raleigh  (then  Miss  Ellisen), 

197 


FROM   STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

Eva  Moore,  and  Rosina  Philippi.  It  ran  about  ten 
months,  and  then  Mrs.  Wood  put  on  "  The  Vol- 
cano," by  Ralph  Lumley,  the  author  of  "  Aunt 
Jack."  It  was  full  of  brilliant  lines  and  much 
cleverer  than  "  Aunt  Jack,"  but  the  public  did  n't 
take  to  it,  so  it  ran  for  only  six  weeks.  There  was 
a  fine  ballroom  scene  in  the  play,  designed  from  a 
room  in  Dorchester  House;  it  cost  a  large  sum  of 
money,  for  all  the  mouldings  were  in  relief  instead 
of  simply  being  painted  on  in  imitation,  and  the 
dresses  were  superb,  but  alas!  "no  good."  The 
public  did  n't  respond  —  I  wonder  whether  this 
bad  luck  had  anything  to  do  with  the  name  of  the 
play,  for  I  hare  invariably  noticed  that  when  the 
title  of  a  play  refers  to  anything  concerning  a 
disturbance  of  the  elements  it  seldom  proves  a 
success;  cases  in  point  are  "The  Volcano,"  "The 
Thunderbolt,"  "The  Whirlwind,"  "The  Mael- 
strom," "  The  Cataract,"  "  The  Deluge,"  "  Storm- 
bound," "  Struck  by  Lightning,"  etc.,  and  many 
others.  I  am  not  very  superstitious,  but  whenever 
1  see  a  play  announced  with  a  title  similar  to  those 
I  have  quoted,  I  fear  for  the  result. 

As  I  have  always  felt  it  was  a  great  privilege 
to  play  with  Henry  Irving  and  Beerbohm  Tree, 
so  I  felt  it  was  to  have  acted  with  Mrs.  John  Wood. 
What  a  delightful  actress,  what  a  sense  of  humour! 
She  could  make  people  laugh  with  her  "  yes  "  or 
"  no,"  and  her  style  was  most  original.  She  did  n't 
get  her  laughter  through  physical  deformities  or 
making  ugly  contortions,  for  she  was  the  most  beau- 
tiful-looking creature,  a  fine  figure,  and  she  is  still  a 
most  handsome  woman.  A  beautiful  woman  is 
198 


JOSEPH    LEBANON    IN    "THE   CABINET    MINISTER 


AN   ACCIDENT 

always  beautiful ;  it  is  not  a  question  of  age,  but  of 
intellect  and  expression.  Mrs.  John  Wood's  clear- 
cut  delivery  made  every  word  as  distinct  to  the 
back  row  of  the  pit  or  gallery,  as  it  was  in  the  front 
row  of  the  stalls,  which  contributed  not  a  little  to 
her  great  popularity. 

One  night  during  the  run  of  "  Aunt  Jack,"  a 
new  "  property  man  "  had  made  up  a  barrister's 
brief  which  was  used  by  me  and  Mrs.  Wood,  and 
by  mistake  he  had  made  it  extra  heavy.  In  one 
scene  of  the  play  she  had  to  thrust  it  out  to  her 
counsel  (played  by  Eric  Lewis),  and  I  entering 
suddenly  used  to  receive  it  on  my  head,  my  hat 
being  knocked  off,  —  a  sure  laugh  with  any  aud- 
ience, but  on  this  occasion,  whether  I  raised  my 
head  too  quickly  or  she  lowered  her  arm  or  what, 
I  don't  know,  but  this  I  do  remember,  and  am  not 
likely  ever  to  forget:  the  heavy  brief,  as  hard  as  a 
piece  of  wood,  struck  me  a  violent  blow  on  the  right 
ear.  For  a  few  moments  I  heard  a  curious  sing- 
ing in  my  ear,  and  then  I  could  scarcely  hear  any- 
thing, not  even  the  "  cues."  The  audience  roared 
with  laughter,  which  I  am  sure  they  would  n't  have 
done  had  they  known  I  was  injured,  and  I  was  hurt 
very  seriously;  for  on  seeing  my  doctor  the  next 
morning  he  informed  me  that  the  drum  of  the  ear 
was  broken.  In  fact,  there  was  a  hole  in  it  which 
would  never  heal  up,  so  he  said.  He  attended  me 
for  a  week  and  said  "  nothing  could  be  done."  This 
indeed  was  a  cheerful  look-out,  but  I  consulted 
Dr.  Orwin,  the  famous  aurist  of  Weymouth  Street, 
who  said  that  he  believed  with  constant  attention 
he  could  cure  it,  and  his  judgment  was  correct,  for 

199 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

in  a  month  it  had  completely  healed,  and  I  have 
never  had  any  trouble  with  it  since.  It  was  ac- 
knowledged to  be  a  most  remarkable  cure. 

There  were  no  parts  for  either  my  friend  Bran- 
don Thomas  or  myself  in  the  piece  to  follow,  "  The 
Late  Lamented."  The  fortnight's  notice  was  al- 
ready up.  On  the  Saturday  night  Brandon  Thomas 
and  myself  at  the  fall  of  the  curtain  were  packing 
up  our  make-up  boxes,  and  talking  about  the  work- 
house and  other  cheerful  topics,  and  this  suggested 
to  Brandon  Thomas  to  write  the  following  poem, 
which,  set  to  the  tune  of  "  The  Wearin'  o'  the 
Green,"  he  sang  at  all  the  Bohemian  clubs  when- 
ever they  had  a  sing-song,  for  years  afterwards: 


TILL  THE  LAVES  ARE  OFF  THE  THREES 

("  The  WearirC  o'  the  Green") 

The  notis  is  gone  up,  they  say,  thim  Managers  to  plaize, 
We  '11  not  be  wanted  back  until  the  laves  are  off  the  threes, 
So  go  your  ways  an'  starve,  me  boys,  what  care  they  for  your 

pangs, 
An'  don't  complain,  or  else  you'll  taste  their  managerial  fangs. 
They  've  all  a  million  pounds  apiece,  torn  from  us  day  by  day, 
And  now  they  turn  their  backs  on  us  t'  enjoy  their  holiday, 
They  '11  ate  an'  dhrink  from  morn  till  night,  an'  finish  up  wid 

cheese, 
While  we  '11  be  starvin',  waitin',  till  the  laves  are  off  the  threes. 

There 's  Misther  Cecil  goes  to  live  in  castles  in  the  north, 
Wid  Dhukes  an'  Lords  an'  all  that  goes  to  make  life  livin' 

worth; 
They  '11  feed  him  to  his  heart's  content,  an'  giv'  him  lodgin's 

free, 
An'  send  him  back  just  twice  the  size  of  starvin'  you  an'  me; 
200 


POETRY 

An'  while  we  're  fadin'  in  the  south,  till  chill  October  comes, 
An'  sellin'  this  an'  that  to  live,  that  used  to  deck  our  homes, 
Ould  Arthur  he  '11  be  warblin'  in  thim  castles  by  the  says, 
Forgettin'  that  we  're  starvin'  till  the  laves  are  off  the  threes. 

There 's  Aynesworth  swore  he  'd  take  himself  a  noble  holiday, 
And  sint  away  his  huntin'  kit  to  Oireland  o'er  the  say; 
He  also  sent  his  fishin'  thraps  to  Scotland  in  a  van, 
An'  all  his  guns  and  shootin'  things  unto  the  Isle  of  Man; 
But  when  he  heard  the  crewel  news,  for  "nine  weeks  or  for 

more," 
u  The  Saints  be  with  us  all,"  and  to  himself  he  swore, 
"Bad  luck  to  tyrant  managers  that  goes  away  at  aise; 
Look  out  for  throuble,  boys,  whin  thim  same  laves  is  off  the 

threes." 

There 's  me  an*  poor  ould  Weedon  never  thot  they  'd  go  an' 

close, 
An'  what  we  're  goin'  for  to  do  Saint  Patrick  only  knows, 
Unless  we  find  a  pawn  shop  where  the  man  loves  works  o'  art, 
An'  has  a  taste  for  literature,  upon  which  he  will  part; 
An'  Roma  Cushla,  whom  a  little  starvin'  would  do  good, 
Is  goin'  to  feast  more  freely  in  the  Halls  of  Ravenswood, 
While  we,  like  poor  neglected  cats  whin  the  fam'ly  's  by  the 

says, 
Are  starvin',  day  by  day,  until  the  laves  are  off  the  threes. 

There 's  Waring,  he  '11  be  timpted  off  the  Lading  Parts  to  play, 
In  Tree's  new  piece,  or  Willard's,  or  p'raps  to  Americay, 
Maybe  the  Comedie  Francaise  —  he  has  n't  settled  yet; 
He  '11  mount  so  high,  his  poor  old  pals  he  '11  very  soon  forget. 
An'  Saunders  manes  to  keep  himself  by  bettin'  on  a  horse, 
The  Prompter  '11  go  to  sleep,  as  Prompters  always  do,  of  course, 
An'  Andy  '11  take  his  boys  down  where  the  sand  is  mixed  with 

fleas, 
But  they'll  come  crawlin'  back  whin  the  laves  are  off  the  threes. 

Well,  we  must  trust  unto  the  Power  that  thim  in  sorrow  helps, 
But  may  it  rest  its  kindest  hand  on  gentle  Misthress  Phelps, 

201 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

An'  all  the  ladies,  one  by  one,  that  share  wid  us  the  sack, 
May  all  their  dhresses  fit  them  whin  they're  afther  comin* 

back. 
An'  thim  same  Bloated  Rulers,  who  have  left  us  to  our  fate, 
I  wish  them  all  the  health  they  '11  get  from  all  they  '11  dhrink 

and  ate; 
May  they  renew  their  strength  to  play  both  night  and  matinees, 
They'll  get  a  heartfelt  welcome  whin  the  laves  are  off  the 

threes. 


202 


CHAPTER   XVI 

The  Triple  Bill  at  Terry's  Theatre, 
and  "The  Crusaders,"  by  Henry 
Arthur  Jones 

A  FTER  "  waiting  out  "  some  time  and  having 
/^L       no  offers  of  engagements,  in  desperation 

/  ^  Brandon  and  I  decided  to  have  a  "  little 
-^-  flutter "  on  our  own.  The  ever  good- 
natured  Cecil  Clay  gave  us  permission  to  play 
11  The  Pantomime  Rehearsal  "  in  London,  so  we 
formed  a  Triple  Bill  by  putting  up  "  The  Lanca- 
shire Sailor,"  written  by  Brandon  Thomas,  and  "  A 
Commission,"  written  by  myself,  in  front  of  it. 
And  in  "  A  Commission,"  we  had  the  good  fortune 
to  secure  the  services  of  the  beautiful  and  clever 
Lily  Hanbury  for  the  chief  part.  Charles  Abud 
and  George  Edwardes  found  some  capital  (not 
much),  and  we  started  at  Terry's  Theatre  on  June 
6,  1 89 1.  Everyone  who  came  liked  it,  but  they 
did  n't  come  in  sufficient  numbers  to  make  it  pay. 
The  Libraries,  who  had  done  a  deal,  got  frightened 
—  as  they  frequently  do  —  and  begged  to  be  let  off, 
and  Edwardes,  in  fear  of  offending  them,  complied 
with  their  wishes,  and  at  the  end  of  the  month  we 
decided  to  "  put  up  the  shutters." 

One  day,  just  before  the  end  had  come,  in  rushed 
Abud,  bringing  with  him  a  cheery  friend,  the  late 

203 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

Walter  Pallant,  who  was  ready  to  put  up  sufficient 
capital  to  sail  the  ship  again  for  another  month, 
and  on  we  went  merrily  without  a  stop.  We  had 
to  leave  Terry's,  so  we  moved  to  the  Shaftesbury, 
but  we  were  able  to  have  that  for  only  a  few  months, 
and  another  move  had  to  be  made  to  Toole's 
Theatre,  now  submerged  into  the  Charing  Cross 
Hospital.  But  Toole,  returning  from  his  provin- 
cial tour,  obliged  us  to  make  another  move,  and  on 
we  went  to  the  Court  Theatre,  and  during  that  time 
we  substituted  other  pieces  in  place  of  "  The  Lan- 
cashire Sailor  "  and  "  A  Commission,"  always  keep- 
ing "  The  Pantomime  Rehearsal  "  in  the  bill  as  the 
piece  de  resistance. 

We  produced  "  Good  For  Nothing,"  "  Faithful 
James,"  by  B.  C.  Stephenson,  "  The  New  Sub,"  by 
Brandon  Thomas,  which  Seymour  Hicks  played  in, 
and  W.  S.  Gilbert's  "  Rosencrantz  and  Guild- 
enstein,"  in  which  I  played  Hamlet,  Brandon 
Thomas  the  King,  Gertrude  Kingston  the  Queen, 
W.  G.  Elliot  and  C.  P.  Little  appeared  as  Rosen- 
crantz and  Guildenstein,  and  May  Palfrey  as  the 
Player  Queen;  she  was  also  playing  in  "A  Com- 
mission "  and  "  The  Pantomime  Rehearsal "  in 
company  with  Beatrice  Lamb,  Gertrude  Kingston, 
Ellaline  Terriss,  Edith  Chester,  and  Rose  Norreys, 
and,  later  on,  both  Decima  and  Eva  Moore  joined 
the  company. 

During  the  rehearsals  of  "  A  Commission " 
Abud  brought  down  a  young  lady  with  instruc- 
tions "  from  the  front "  that  she  was  to  play  the 
small  part  of  the  maid.  It  is  called  "  lumbering," 
and  B.  T.  and  myself  resented  ladies  being  "  lum- 
204 


THE   TRIPLE    BILL 

bered  "  on  to  us  simply  because  they  were  friends  of 
a  "  backer."  If  she  had  suited  the  part  it  would  n't 
have  mattered,  but  she  was  of  the  type  of  an  East 
End  factory  girl,  with  the  airs  of  a  bogus  duchess  and 
dressed  to  death  —  her  furs  alone  would  have  paid 
for  our  production.  She  was  very  patronising,  and 
as  she  shook  my  hand,  she  said,  "  I  Ve  oft-ten  heard 
of  you,  from  a  gentleman  friend  of  mine  who  knows 
you  persontf//y.  I  suppose  he  's  met  you  at  some 
Boemian  Club."  Her  affected  voice  was  quite 
unsuited  to  a  simple  lady's  maid,  and  I  asserted 
my  rights  as  the  author  of  the  play,  and  objected  to 
her  on  this  ground.  But  it  was  no  good.  Abud  said 
"  it  had  to  be."  So  Thomas  and  myself  pocketed 
our  pride  and  submitted  gracefully,  and  Abud  left 
us,  telling  the  lady's  coachman  he  "  need  n't  wait," 
—  for  she  possessed  the  usual  "  hard-earned 
brougham." 

We  offered  her  a  seat  on  the  stage,  while  we 
were  arranging  the  easel  and  furniture  for  the 
scene  which  was  to  represent  an  artist's  studio. 
Thomas's  views  were  antagonistic  to  mine.  He 
was  "  enthused  "  at  that  period  by  the  influence  of 
Whistler  and  his  many  satellites,  and  wanted  the 
easel  up  stage,  I  wanted  it  down;  he  wanted  the 
room  dark,  I  wanted  it  light;  and  as  /  had  written 
the  play  and  was  still  painting  portraits  in  my 
studio,  I  declared  I  knew  more  about  an  artist's 
studio  than  he  did.  This  he  denied.  I  regret  to 
say  we  came  to  words,  and  we  handed  out  some 
very  uncomplimentary  remarks  to  each  other.  The 
young  lady  was  getting  very  impatient  and  was 
stamping  her  feet  on  the  ground. 

205 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

I  pushed  the  easel  down  stage,  Thomas  pushed 
it  up.  The  war  had  continued  for  about  ten  min- 
utes, when  the  young  lady  suddenly  jumped  up, 
screwed  up  her  part,  which  she  threw  down  on 
the  floor,  shouted  "  Cads!  "  and  flounced  out  of  the 
building,  never  to  return.  Thomas  and  myself 
stared  at  each  other  for  a  moment.  The  expression 
on  our  faces  changed  to  mirth  from  anger.  We 
roared  with  laughter  and  shook  hands,  congratu- 
lating ourselves  on  her  departure. 

Among  the  actors  and  actresses  who  played  in 
"  The  Pantomime  Rehearsal "  and  other  items  of 
the  original  Triple  Bill  in  London  were  Gertrude 
Kingston,  Carlotta  Addison,  Helena  Dacre,  and 
C.  P.  Little  —  a  most  admirable  exponent  of  Jack 
Deedes  and  Wilfred  Draycott  as  Sir  Charles 
Grandison.  Little  left  the  stage  some  years  ago  to 
become  a  journalist  and  writer  of  fashionable  in- 
telligence on  the  staff  of  the  Daily  Chatter  Box 
and  other  widely  read  journals,  "  equally  well 
known  but  too  numerous  to  mention  here!"  He  is 
also  an  authority  on  men's  clothes. 

May  Palfrey,  as  many  of  my  readers  know,  is 
now  Mrs.  Weedon  Grossmith  in  private  life.  Her 
father,  Dr.  James  Palfrey,  the  eminent  physician  of 
Brook  Street,  died  at  the  early  age  of  fourty-four, 
and  the  heavy  expenses  which  a  physician  with  a 
large  practice  is  bound  to  incur  had  not  enabled 
him  to  provide  adequately  for  his  young  family. 
His  daughter  May,  after  a  course  of  study  with 
Miss  Florence  Haydon  (the  well-known  actress 
whose  experience  of  the  stage  began  at  the  time  of 
the  u  Great  little  Robson,"  with  whom  she  appeared 
206 


THE   TRIPLE    BILL 

in  her  very  youthful  days  as  a  child  actress),  put 
her  shoulder  to  the  wheel  and  went  on  the  stage, 
Augustus  Harris  giving  her  her  first  appearance 
at  Drury  Lane,  an  engagement  which  lasted  over 
a  year,  during  which  she  understudied  Fanny 
B  rough. 

Later  on  she  joined  our  Triple  Bill,  and  two 
years  afterwards,  at  the  end  of  the  run  of  "  The 
New  Boy,"  in  which  she  so  successfully  played  the 
part  of  "  Nancy  Roach,"  the  school  girl  —  she,  much 
to  the  annoyance  of  several  better-looking  men  (at 
least  in  their  own  estimation),  married  me,  and,  as 
the  story  books  say,  we  "  lived  happily  ever  after- 
wards," with  the  addition  of  a  charming  little 
daughter  to  brighten  a  happy  household. 

Thinking  the  Triple  Bill  would  terminate  earlier 
than  it  did,  I  signed  and  settled  to  play  in  Henry 
Arthur  Jones'  play,  "  The  Crusaders,"  and  as  there 
was  a  little  difficulty  in  being  in  two  places  at 
once,  it  was  arranged  that  I  should  play  in  "  The 
Crusaders  "  for  a  month,  which  I  did,  opening  there 
on  November  2,  1891. 

I  played  "  Mr.  Palsam,"  a  narrow-minded,  ego- 
tistical nonconformist  or  dissenter,  an  excellent 
part,  but  a  most  repulsive  character.  I  note  how 
he  is  described  by  the  author.  Mr.  Palsam  is  "  a 
thin,  pale,  weedy,  nervous,  unhealthy-looking  little 
man,  about  thirty-five,  very  short-sighted,  precise, 
fidgety  and  excitable,  waspish,  narrow-minded," 
mind  you,  and  the  author  wrote  this  part  for  me!  ! 

It  was  a  fine  cast,  including  Lady  Monckton 
(who  christened  my  brother  and  I  Gee-Gee  and 
Wee-Gee),  Winifred  Emery,  Olga  Brandon,  Arthur 

207 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

Cecil,  Yorke  Stephens,  Lewis  Waller,  Henry 
Kemble,  and  Allan  Aynesworth. 

During  my  absence  from  the  Triple  Bill  for  a 
month,  my  part,  Lord  Arthur,  in  "  The  Pantomime 
Rehearsal,"  was  taken  first  by  Adolphus  Vane 
Tempest,  and  afterwards  by  the  late  Compton 
Coutts.  Both  these  gentlemen  played  the  part  ad- 
mirably, but  my  partner,  Brandon  Thomas,  who 
has  always  been  absurdly  prejudiced  in  my  favour, 
sulked  and  pined  for  my  return,  so  I  rejoined  the 
Triple  Bill  after  five  or  six  weeks  and  the  part  of 
Palsam  in  "The  Crusaders "  was  then  taken  by 
Cyril  Maude. 

During  the  run  of  the  Triple  Bill  an  old  friend 
came  round,  at  the  termination  of  "  The  Pantomime 
Rehearsal,"  to  my  dressing  room  and  brought  an- 
other man  with  him.  He  had  never  seen  me  on  the 
stage,  and  knew  me  only  as  a  painter.  He  expressed 
his  great  delight  at  our  meeting,  and  I  thoroughly 
reciprocated  his  feelings.  He  appeared  very  merry 
and  kept  on  tapping  me  on  the  shoulder,  saying, 
"  Yes,  my  dear  Weedon,  we  saw  by  your  name  on 
the  bills  that  you  were  play-acting,  and  we  came  to 
see  you,  and  we  paid  too,  by  Jove,  didn't  we?" 
appealing  to  his  friend  as  if  it  were  an  unusual  pro- 
cedure for  an  old  friend  of  an  actor  to  pay  for 
admission  to  a  theatre. 

"  Yes,  by  Jove,"  he  rattled  on,  "  and  if  ever  you 
come  to  Leeds  you  must  lunch  with  us,  what? 
Must  n't  he?" 

"  Rather,"  replied  his  friend. 

I  assured  them  I  would  run  down  one  day  to 
Leeds  to  lunch,  and  during  a  pause  in  the  conversa- 
208 


THE   TRIPLE   BILL 

tion  I  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  me  as  an  actor, 
—  always  an  unwise  question  to  ask  a  friend. 

"  I  thought  you  were  rather  good,  did  n't  I  say 
so?  "  again  appealing  to  his  Yorkshire  friend;  and 
then  he  shook  me  by  the  hand  very  seriously,  as  he 
said,  "  Yes,  very  good  indeed,  but  I  hope  you 
have  n't  give  up  your  painting,  Weedon!  " 

Brandon  Thomas  would  sometimes  come  to  my 
dressing  room  asking  me  for  the  loan  of  a  sover- 
eign. He  used  to  leave  his  flat,  which  was  just 
opposite  the  theatre,  and  not  bother  to  see  whether 
he  had  any  money  on  him.  He  was  a  happy-go- 
lucky,  careless,  generous  fellow  in  the  early  nineties, 
and  would  often  come  to  the  theatre  without  even 
the  price  of  a  cab  fare  in  his  pocket,  but  he  was 
also  the  most  remarkable  exception  to  the  ordinary 
borrower.  He  ALWAYS  paid  you  back,  and  usually 
did  so  the  next  day. 

One  evening  before  the  performance  commenced, 
he  entered  my  dressing  room  and  said,  "  Weedon, 
could  you  lend  me  a  couple  of  sovereigns?  "  This 
was  rather  a  tall  order  for  me  in  those  days,  but  I 
looked  in  my  pocket-book  and  found  I  had  just  that 
amount,  which  I  gave  him.  He  said,  "  I  '11  pay  you 
back  to-morrow,  but  I  want  to  take  my  cousin  out 
to  supper  to-night,  and  have  only  a  few  shillings 
in  my  pocket."  He  added  that  his  cousin  from 
the  North  had  seen  the  provincial  companies  play 
the  "  Triple  Bill  "  several  times,  and  was  anxious  to 
see  how  we  played  it  in  London.  Thomas  said, 
"  Weedon,  play  up,  do  your  best,  I  want  to  show 
my  cousin  who  is  in  the  stalls,  HOW '  The  Pantomine 
Rehearsal '  ought  to  be  played."    I  always  make  a 

209 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

point  of  doing  my  best,  and  abstain  from  fooling 
or  over-acting,  even  if  it 's  a  bad  house,  for  I  always 
think  that  that  is  the  time  one  should  put  out  extra 
energy,  and  repay  the  few  people  who  have  had 
the  good  taste  to  select  your  play  from  among  so 
many  others.  However,  if  I  did  make  any  differ- 
ence on  this  particular  occasion,  it  was  to  play  up 
extra  well.  It  was  a  full  house  and  the  piece  never 
went  better. 

After  we  had  finished  I  went  to  my  room. 
Brandon  and  his  Northern  relative  went  into  his, 
which  was  just  opposite  mine;  his  door  was  open 
and  I  could  hear  a  good  deal  of  their  conversation, 
and  I  am  bound  to  say  I  was  rather  anxious  to  know 
the  verdict. 

I  heard  Brandon  say,  "  I  'm  glad  you  think  we  're 
not  bad,"  and  his  friend  replying,  "  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
I  think  you  were  all  jolly  good,  but  the  provincial 
company  made  so  much  more  of  everything.  For 
instance,  the  man  who  played  your  part  was  a  first- 
rate  dancer."  (This  is  exactly  what  he  ought  not 
to  have  been  in  the  part  of  Captain  Tom  Robinson.) 

I  heard  Brandon  say  in  his  most  satirical  manner, 
"  No,  I  don't  dance,"  and  his  relative  replied,  "  No, 
I  could  see  that,  it 's  a  pity,  but  the  other  chap  who 
played  in  the  country  jumped  all  over  the  place, 
and  put  in  a  splendid  song  about  '  I  'm  full  up  to 
here,  with  whiskey  and  beer,  oh  dear,  oh  dear!' 
You  ought  to  see  him,  it 's  worth  a  day's  journey." 

As  he  became  more  and  more  hilarious  with  the 
thought  of  the  provincial  company,  Brandon  was 
getting  quieter  and  quieter  and  very  much  on  his 
dignity,  and  in  a  cold  and  distant  manner  asked 
210 


THE   TRIPLE    BILL 

whether  Weedon  Grossmith  could  "  compare 
favourably  with  the  provincial  actor,"  and  the 
hilarious  one  replied,  "  I  thought  Weedon  Gross- 
mith very  good  indeed,  but  he's  not  a  touch  on 
the  little  chap  in  the  '  Provs.'  Weedon  Grossmith 
says  '  What  rot! '  only  three  or  four  times,  and  the 
other  cove  says  it  a  couple  of  dozen  times  at  least. 
I  tell  you,  if  they  are  anywhere  near  London,  you 
take  my  tip  and  go  and  see  them  —  you  '11  get  some 
hints." 

There  was  a  lull  in  the  conversation  after  this 
last  tactless  remark,  then  I  heard  them  wishing 
each  other  good-night. 

Ten  minutes  later  Brandon  came  into  my  room, 
looking  a  little  depressed,  and  putting  the  two 
sovereigns  he  had  borrowed  of  me  quietly  down  on 
my  dressing  table,  said,  "  Good-night,  old  chap,  and 
thank  you  for  the  little  loan,  but  I  shall  not  want 
it  now.    I  am  not  going  out  to  supper  to-night!  1 " 


211 


CHAPTER   XVII 

"  The  Guardsman,"  by  G.  R.  Sims  and  Cecil 
Raleigh  ;  "  The  Amazons,"  by  Arthur 
Pinero;  "The  New  Boy,"  by  Arthur 
Law.   W.  S.  Penley 

OCTOBER  20,  1898,  at  the  Court  Theatre, 
Arthur  Chudleigh  produced  "  The 
Guardsman,"  by  G.  R.  Sims  and  Cecil 
Raleigh,  in  which  I  played  a  fashionable, 
vulgar  racing-man  of  wealth  who  drove  a  coach. 
My  clothes  lor  this  play,  which  had  to  be  rather 
smart  and  sporting,  cost  me  forty  pounds;  they 
were  made  by  Cooling  &  Lawrence,  who  have  a 
reputation  for  smartness,  but  not  cheapness,  and  as 
the  play  ran  only  six  weeks,  and  the  clothes  were 
of  no  use  to  me  for  private  wear  (not  having  a 
coach),  it  was  a  costly  outlay.  I  mention  this  sor- 
did detail  only  to  illustrate  the  fact  that  it  is  not 
"  all  profit  and  no  loss  "  on  the  business  side  of  the 
actor's  calling. 

The  cast  included  Caroline  Hill,  Ellaline 
Terriss,  Mrs.  Cecil  Raleigh,  W.  G.  Elliot,  C.  P. 
Little,  Compton  Coutts,  and  Arthur  Cecil.  This 
was  followed  by  a  revival  of  "  The  Pantomime 
Rehearsal,"  which  evidently  came  too  soon,  as  it 
failed  to  draw. 

On  March  7,  1893,  Arthur  Chudleigh  produced 
212 


"THE  AMAZONS" 

"  The  Amazons,"  by  A.  W.  Pinero.  The  cast 
included  Lily  Hanbury,  Ellaline  Terriss,  Pattie 
Brown,  Rose  Le  Clerq,  Fred  Kerr,  W.  G.  Elliot, 
and  myself.  I  have  always  thought  "  The 
Amazons "  one  of  the  finest  farces  Pinero  has 
written.  It  is  a  delightful  mixture  of  fun  and 
romance;  the  first  two  acts,  taking  place  in  the 
woods  of  "  Overcote,"  are,  with  all  the  realistic 
autumn  effects,  delightfully  pretty,  the  stage  being 
strewn  with  real  autumn  leaves.  The  run  lasted 
about  five  months. 

Since  writing  the  foregoing,  Mr.  Charles  Froh- 
man  has  revived  "  The  Amazons,"  at  the  Duke  of 
York's  Theatre,  June  14,  1912.  After  a  period  of 
nineteen  years  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  resuming 
my  original  part  in  this  delightful  play  and  have 
also  had  the  experience  of  playing  it  as  the  only 
"  original  "  member  of  the  cast,  which  in  the  present 
instance  included  the  Misses  Ellis  Jeffreys,  Neilson- 
Terry,  Marie  Lohr,  Pauline  Chase,  Ruth  Mac- 
kay,  and  Messrs.  Dion  Boucicault  and  Godfrey 
Tearle.  We  played  to  record  houses  all  through 
the  season. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  run  of  "  The  Amazons  " 
in  1893  Arthur  Chudleigh  produced  "The  Other 
Fellow,"  in  September,  translated  by  Mr.  Fred 
K.  Horner  from  the  French  of  "  Champignol 
malgre  lui."  The  action  took  place  in  France,  and 
the  late  Charles  Groves  and  myself  played  the  parts 
of  a  couple  of  civilians  serving  their  term  of  con- 
scription. I  remember  the  French  uniforms  were 
very  heavy,  and  the  rifles  with  the  long  bayonets 
still   heavier.     The   cast   also    included    Ellaline 

213 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

Terriss,  Pattie  Brown,  and  Charles  Brookfield  — 
now  joint  licenser  of  plays,  with  another  of  my  much 
valued  old  friends,  Ernest  Bendall. 

It  was  transferred  to  the  Old  Strand  Theatre 
November  18,  but  failed  to  attract  there.  I  was 
out  of  work,  had  no  offers,  and  things  were  looking 
rather  bad.  My  entire  savings,  after  my  debts 
had  at  last  been  paid,  amounted  to  a  few  hundred 
pounds,  which  was  all  deposited  in  the  Birkbeck 
Bank,  then  facing  the  terrors  of  a  "  run." 

I  never  removed  a  penny  of  my  money,  although 
I  witnessed  the  frightened  multitude  of  people, 
many  from  the  country,  pushing,  rushing,  and  fight- 
ing to  get  to  the  counters  in  their  eagerness  to  with- 
draw their  savings;  and  many  of  them,  emerging 
from  the  crush  and  gaining  the  street,  hot  and  faint 
with  fatigue,  had  the  bags  containing  their  money 
snatched  from  them  by  thieves  who  had  surrounded 
the  building  in  the  hope  of  plundering  these  foolish 
and  timid  people. 

The  first  step  I  thought  I  had  better  take  with 
a  view  to  retrenching  was  to  let  my  house  at  Canon- 
bury;  consequently,  I  put  an  advertisement  in  the 
newspapers  to  facilitate  that  purpose,  but  one  after- 
noon, Arthur  Law  arrived  at  The  Old  House  with 
a  play  in  his  pocket  that  he  wished  to  read  to  me. 
It  was  called  "  Master  Freddie,"  but  was  afterwards 
rechristened  "  The  New  Boy."  The  title  was  sug- 
gested by  Jocelyn  Brandon,  the  Solicitor,  (L.C.C.,) 
a  very  good  judge,  and  an  admirable  critic  of  a 
play. 

After  reading  the  piece  there  was  no  hesitation 
on  my  part.  I  decided  to  do  it,  and  as  soon  as 
214 


"THE   NEW   BOY" 

possible.  Jocelyn  Brandon  found  a  "  backer,"  i.  e., 
a  gentleman  to  finance  it,  and  off  we  started  with 
rehearsals. 

The  cast  included  Misses  Gladys  Homf  rey,  Alice 
Beet,  Esme  Beringer  and  May  Palfrey,  John 
Beauchamp,  J.  D.  Beveridge,  Kenneth  Douglas, 
Sidney  Warden  and  C.  Volpe.  I  also  engaged  Mr. 
Alex  Henderson  as  my  acting  manager. 

It  was  very  difficult  to  get  a  real  boy  of  the  age  of 
fourteen  or  fifteen  to  play  the  part  of  "  Bullock 
major,"  the  bully  of  the  school,  for,  although  a 
bully,  he  had  to  be  a  gentleman  with  the  stamp  of 
the  public  school  upon  him.  We  tried  several,  but 
they  were  not  right.  Then  one  day  Miss  Maud 
Millett  (now  Mrs.  Tennant)  brought  a  young  step- 
brother of  hers  in  an  Eton  jacket  and  tall  hat  and 
suggested  him  for  the  part. 

He  rehearsed  on  approval.  One  rehearsal  was 
sufficient  for  me  to  decide  that  he  was  made  for 
the  part,  he  was  literally  " It"  We  had  to  worry 
him  a  bit,  poor  chap,  but  it  was  all  in  the  way  of 
kindness  and  art,  and  he  was  rewarded  for  his 
patience  and  perseverance  by  making  a  great  hit, 
in  my  opinion  the  hit  of  the  play,  and  many  of  his 
old  friends,  including  my  wife,  have  called  him 
"  Bullock  "  ever  since,  and  know  him  by  no  other 
name.  I  refer  to  Kenneth  Douglas,  who  has  become 
a  fine  actor  and  a  great  favourite  with  the  public. 
May  Palfrey  also  made  a  great  success  as  the  school 
girl,  Nancy  Roach. 

We  tried  the  play  "  on  the  dog  "  at  Devonshire 
Park  Theatre,  Eastbourne,  February  i,  1894, 
Folkestone,  and  Leamington,  and  lost  money  at  all 

215 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

these  places.  But  we  opened  in  London  at  Terry's 
Theatre,  February  21,  1894,  and  at  the  third  per- 
formance turned  away  money,  which  pleasant 
process  was  repeated  at  every  subsequent  per- 
formance. But  we  opened  in  London  at  Terry's 
to  make  way  for  a  burlesque,  so  I  took  a  lease  of 
the  Vaudeville  Theatre  from  April  16,  1894,  and 
played  to  crowded  houses  right  through  the  entire 
season;   the  "  run"  lasted  for  fourteen  months. 

My  "backer"  put  up  a  thousand  pounds;  only 
five  hundred  was  used,  which  was  repaid  him  the 
first  week,  and  he  took  as  his  share  of  the  profits 
about  fifteen  thousand  pounds. 

At  the  end  of  the  run  of  "The  New  Boy"  I 
married  May  Palfrey,  and  after  a  honeymoon 
of  about  five  days  returned  to  town  and  opened 
with  "  The  Lady's  Idol,"  by  Arthur  Law,  in  March, 
1895.  In  this  play  I  played  the  part  of  a  fashion- 
able society  singer,  and  my  wife  that  of  the  domesti- 
cated wife  who  was  a  professional  dancer.  My 
first  line  on  entering  was,  "  Well,  Polly,  how  's  the 
baby?  "  received  with  shouts  of  laughter  from  a 
crowded  house,  which  rather  embarrassed  me, 
naturally  never  seeing  the  joke  in  that  light. 

It  was  a  long  and  expensive  cast,  with  costly 
dresses  and  scenery,  and  was  not  a  pecuniary  success, 
and  it  was  a  great  disappointment  to  us  all. 

I  followed  this  by  another  farce,  "  Poor  Mr. 
Potton,"  by  C.  Hamlyn  and  H.  M.  Paull,  in  Oc- 
tober, 1895.  This  farce  made  the  public  roar  with 
laughter,  but  they  did  not  come  in  sufficient  num- 
bers to  make  it  pay,  so  after  six  or  seven  weeks  of 
uneven  business,  first  up  and  then  down,  I  put  up 
216 


"POOR   MR.    POTTON" 

the  shutters,  which  is  invariably  my  habit  when 
nothing  is  coming  into  the  till,  and  said,  "  Next, 
please." 

The  idea  of  "  Poor  Mr.  Potton "  was  Mr. 
Hamlyn's,  and  I  got  Mr.  H.  M.  Paull  to  write  in 
some  love  scenes,  but  the  bulk  of  the  play  was 
written  by  myself,  though  I  never  put  my  name  to 
it,  which,  under  the  circumstances,  I  was  not  sorry 
for.  Several  of  my  friends,  on  coming  round  to  my 
dressing  room,  and  being  asked  their  opinion  of  the 
play,  did  n't  improve  matters  by  saying,  "  Well,  I 
liked  it,  I  did,  really."  And  the  climax  was  reached 
one  night  at  the  Beefsteak  Club,  where  I  had  been 
confiding  to  a  few  members  at  the  dinner  table  just 
before  I  was  leaving  that  I  had  really  written  the 
play,  when  Sir  Augustus  Webster  came  in  (he  had 
been  to  my  theatre  the  night  before,  and  I  had 
noticed  him  shifting  about  in  his  stall  and  looking 
generally  bored).  I  reminded  him  of  this  fact,  say- 
ing, "  I  'm  afraid  you  did  n't  care  for  me  last  night " 
(a  stupid  thing  to  have  said). 

He  looked  a  little  embarrassed,  and  then  com- 
menced to  ladle  out  many  compliments  on  my 
acting,  and  said,  "  My  dear  Weedon,  I  have  seen 
you  in  everything  you  have  played,  and  there  is  no 
actor  on  the  stage  I  admire  more  than  yourself. 
Your  performance,  as  usual,  was  splendid,  first- 
rate,  but  what  drove  me  to  tears  was  the  play!    But 

that  was  n't  your  fault,  you  did  n't  write  the  d d 

thing."  Amid  roars  of  laughter  I  made  a  rapid 
exit,  leaving  the  others  to  explain. 

I  am  not  one  of  those  actors  who  must  always 
be  acting  for  the  love  of  acting,  nor  does  the  class 

217 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

of  part  that  has  been  allotted  to  me  foster  in  me 
this  overwhelming  love  of  the  Art! 

I  don't  make  my  entrance  on  the  top  of  an  oak 
staircase  in  answer  to  a  call  for  help  from  some 
female  in  distress,  with  sword  in  hand,  my  abundant 
black  ringlets  hanging  over  my  shoulders,  with 
shimmering  breastplate  of  armour,  and  picturesque 
costume  —  designed  by  Macquoid  or  Heslewood  — 
looking  ever  so  much  better  on  the  stage  than  I  have 
ever  looked  off  it,  and  with  a  flourish  of  my  well- 
polished  sword  challenge  half  a  dozen  desperadoes 
to  u  dare  lay  a  hand  on  the  poor  outcast  woman, 
whose  sorrow  and  downfall  have  been  caused  by 
the  accursed  parasites  that  stand  before  me,"  "  One 
step  forward,  and  by  God's  help,  my  iron  will  pass 
through  your  ribs,"  and  terminate  by  saying,  "  Gen- 
tlemen, I  am  for  you."     (They  fight.) 

Not  a  bit  of  it.  This  is  what  would  lead  up  to 
my  entrance,  if  I  have  an  entrance,  (I  am  fre- 
quently "discovered"  with  my  back  to  the  audi- 
ence,) period,  modern  dress. 

The  Juvenile,  an  artist,  is  saying  to  the  heroine, 
"  Then  is  it  really  good-bye,  Lettie?  You  know, 
dear  little  girl,  what  this  means  to  me.  Hope, 
ambition,  everything,  thrown  to  the  winds.  What 
have  I  now  left  to  live  for?  And  do  you  care  for 
this  man,  Plackett?    Can  he  ever  make  you  happy?" 

Lettie  replies,  "  Oh,  don't,  Horace,  you  are  too 
cruel.  You  know  of  my  poor  father's  losses.  The 
dear  old  mills  were  sold  over  his  head,  and  the  old 
house  and  garden  where  we  played  as  children," 
(music)  "together  must  go  to  —  unless  —  un- 
less —  " 
218 


THE   ORIOINAL    DRAWING    KOR    LORD   TWEENWAYS    IN    "THE    AMAZONS ' 
Drawn  l>y  Arthur  Pinero 


MY   CLASS    OF   PART 

14  Yes,  unless  what?  "  says  the  Juvenile. 

"  Unless,"  replies  Lettie,  "  unless  I  marry  Mr. — " 
(This  is  my  entrance.)  "Enter  Mr.  Plackett."  He 
is  described  in  the  part  as  "  a  cadaverous,  over- 
dressed cad,  with  a  pale  face  and  weak-looking 
eyes,  and  is  puffing  a  cigar  in  a  pretentious  manner." 
He  leans  over  the  gate,  not  seeing  the  Juvenile,  and 
says,  "  'Ullo,  Lett!  You  and  I,  nobody  by,  what?  " 
Then  he  sees  the  poor  Juvenile.  "  I  did  n't  see  you. 
My  gain,  your  loss.  Hook!  Twig!  Two's  com, 
three  's  none.    Get  your  hair  cut!  " 

The  Juvenile  clenches  his  fists  and  retires. 

Plackett  grins,  puffs  smoke,  and  continues, 
"  Well,  Lett,  has  the  old  man  come  to  his  senses?  " 

Lettie  (nearly  crying).     "Old  man!" 

Plackett.  "  Yes,  your  father.  Is  it  me  and  you 
and  happiness,  and  the  old  house  and  grounds  are 
still  yours,  or  do  I  foreclose  the  mortgage  on  the 
estate  and  you  marry  your  canvas-spoiling  friend, 
and  '  hash  it '  for  dinner  forevermore,  amen.  Will 
you  marry  me?  " 

Lettie.  "  I  can  never  love  you,  but  —  I  will 
marry  you."     (She  cries.) 

Plackett.  "  All  right,  that 's  a  bit  to  go  on  with." 
This  example  is  in  no  way  an  exaggeration  of  what 
is  expected  of  me,  or  of  many  of  the  parts  I  have 
played. 

A  few  years  ago  a  friend  of  mine,  a  popular 
romantic  actor,  was  astonished  that  my  daughter 
had  never  seen  me  act.  I  have  often  seen  his  chil- 
dren leaning  out  of  a  box,  loudly  applauding  their 
father's  noble  deeds  all  through  the  evening,  and 
I  have  no  doubt  they  regarded  him  in  the  same 

219 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

noble  light  off  the  stage.  But  how  could  my  young 
daughter  applaud  and  respect  me  in  such  parts  as 
Paulsam,  Joseph  Lebanon,  Lord  Huntworth,  and 
many  contemptible  cowards  who  are  frightened  at 
their  own  shadows?  I  am  perfectly  sure  the  public 
estimate  you  by  the  parts  you  play  —  why  not  your 
children  too? 

As  an  instance  of  this,  when  I  was  playing  Joseph 
Lebanon  the  money-lender  in  Pinero's  "  Cabinet 
Minister,"  the  Countess  of  (but  no  matter)  invited 
me  to  supper  at  her  house.  She  said  she  had  heard 
that  my  brother  and  myself  had  done  a  ten  minutes' 
sketch  of  "  a  dentist  and  his  patient "  and  wanted  us 
to  amuse  her  guests.  She  knew  my  brother,  but 
had  only  seen  me  as  Joseph  Lebanon,  and  was  in 
a  mortal  funk  as  to  what  my  manners  would  be 
like  off  the  stage,  and  whether  I  was  fit  to  appear 
in  her  drawing  room  amongst  her  distinguished 
guests. 

I  received  the  invitation  and  promptly  declined 
it,  for  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  paying  for  my  salt 
when  I  'm  asked  out  to  dinner  or  lunch,  as  on  this 
occasion  I  was  expected  to  do. 

If  I  recited  or  acted  at  society  gatherings  I  should 
do  so  professionally  and  should  expect  to  be  paid 
for  my  services,  but  it  is  a  class  of  work  that  has 
never  appealed  to  me.  But  nothing  has  pleased 
me  more  than  to  "  do  something"  (as  it  is  called) 
among  my  intimate  friends,  and  the  only  time  it 
has  given  me  pain  (I'm  not  thinking  about  the 
feelings  of  the  audience)  was  when  I  was  doing  this 
tooth-drawing  act  with  my  brother  at  our  old  friend 
Sam  Heilbut's.  In  the  final  struggle  we  contrived 
220 


CHARLES    MORTON'S   ADVICE 

to  knock  over  a  valuable  vase,  worth  a  hundred 
pounds,  and  smashed  it  to  pieces.  We  were  most 
concerned,  but  our  good-natured  host  only  laughed 
and  said,  "It's  my  own  fault;  that's  all  through 
not  paying  your  artistes." 

By  this  time  I  was  begining  to  find  continuous 
management  had  about  as  much  certainty  of  pro- 
ducing a  steady  income  as  there  is  in  backing  horses. 
Especially  does  this  apply  to  the  production  of 
farces.  It  is  as  much  an  exception  for  a  farce  to 
"  catch  on  "  as  for  a  musical  comedy  to  have  a  short 
run. 

I  met  the  late  Charlie  Morton  one  evening  —  he 
was  then  the  manager  of  the  Palace  Music  Hall  — 
and  on  being  asked  by  him  how  I  was  doing,  I  re- 
plied, "  Only  fairly  well  financially,  but  artistically 
my  play  was  a  great  success."  I  enlarged  for  some 
time  on  the  precariousness  of  theatrical  manage- 
ment. 

Morton  heaved  a  long  sigh  and  exclaimed,  "  Ah! 
You  must  persevere,  my  lad." 

"  I  do,"  I  answered.  "  My  entire  life  is  given 
to  it.  My  time  is  not  my  own;  when  I  am  not 
acting,  I  am  rehearsing,  reading  plays,  and  attend- 
ing to  the  wretched  business  part  of  theatrical  life; 
in  fact,  I  am  working  from  morning  till  night." 

Morton  was  still  unmoved,  and  again  persisted 
that  it  was  all  a  matter  of  "  perseverance,"  and  he 
continued,  "  My  lad,  you  have  had  several  big 
successes  in  farce  under  your  management,  and  —  " 

"  Yes,"  I  interrupted,  "  and  several  failures,  plays 
that  have  not  drawn  money,  and  I've  lost  heavily, 
although  —  " 

221 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

"  Quite  so,"  Morton  resumed.  "  It 's  a  matter 
of  perseverance.  I  have  been  connected  ■  on  and 
off '  with  theatrical  business  for  nearly  forty  years, 
and  my  experience  tells  me  that  if  an  actor-manager 
only  perseveres,  with  continuous  management,  he 
is  bound,  in  the  end,  to  lose  every  penny  he  has  ever 
saved!  He  has  only  to  persevere  and  he  will  finish 
up  with  a*  Benefit!'  " 

Having  taken  the  wind  out  of  my  theatrical  sails, 
he  continued  his  pessimistic  speech  by  saying,  "  The 
actor-managers  who  have  made  sufficient  to  retire 
on  in  this  country  you  could  count  on  the  fingers 
of  one  hand,  and  those  little  fortunes  have  generally 
been  acquired  in  America!  " 

I  was  walking  one  day  down  Kensington  Gore 
with  Lady  White,  the  widow  of  the  late  Sir  Thomas 
White.  We  had  been  chatting  freely  on  the  subject, 
I  think,  of  "  The  Abolition  of  Man,"  and  had 
entered  upon  a  philosophical  discussion  which  was 
far  beyond  my  poor  intellect  to  grasp,  when  the 
argument  was  brought  to  a  speedy  termination  by 
a  scream  from  my  companion.  Thinking  she  had 
been  struck  on  the  leg  by  a  passer-by,  though 
naturally  distressed,  I  admit  I  was  positively 
glad  to  be  in  a  position  to  do  the  "  heroic  act,"  and 
grasping  my  stick  I  shouted,  "Who  did  this?" 
But  on  Lady  White  putting  her  hand  to  her  side, 
where  she  was  struck,  a  bullet  dropped  from  the 
folds  of  her  dress  on  to  the  pavement.  It  was 
evidently  the  result  of  some  fool  having  fired  a 
pistol  in  the  air,  not  thinking  that  the  bullet  has  to 
descend  somewhere  or  other.  I  was  relieved  to 
find  it  had  not  hurt  her,  and  we  proceeded  to  Bond 
222 


VVEEDON   GROSSMITU    AS    "THE    NEW    BOY  " 


Photo  Alfred Kllh 


Photo  Hills  C~  Saunii 
WEEDON    GROSSMITH    AND    KENNETH    DOUGLAS    IN     "THE    NEW    1SOY 


"  THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  SHOPWALKER " 

Street  to  visit  Cheiro,  the  famous  palmist,  who, 
at  her  suggestion,  was  going  to  read  my  hand.  He 
fortunately  did  n't  know  me,  which  made  it  more 
interesting.  He  examined  my  hand  carefully  and 
certainly  told  me  many  things  that  afterwards  came 
true,  and  among  others  that  there  was  a  lot  of 
money  coming  to  me  in  the  near  future.  I  was 
glad  to  hear  this,  for  it  was  quite  foreign  to  me. 
He  said  he  could  not  tell  from  whence  it  was 
coming,  but  it  was  there.  I  asked  him  his  fee.  He 
said  he  was  not  allowed  to  charge,  but  I  observed 
a  large  bowl  on  the  table  containing  a  good  many 
sovereigns  and  a  few  half-sovereigns.  I  took  the 
hint. 

About  six  months  afterwards  Arthur  Law  read 
me  "  The  New  Boy,"  and  Cheiro's  prediction 
proved  right! 

I  have  read  as  many  as  two  hundred  farces  or 
comedies  in  a  year  and  not  found  one  winner 
amongst  them.  At  the  termination  of  the  run  of 
"Poor  Mr.  Potton,"  while  the  late  Robert 
Buchanan  was  writing  me  a  comedy  called  "  The 
Romance  of  a  Shopwalker,"  and  having  no  play  to 
put  on  as  a  stop-gap,  I  had  to  close  the  theatre  for 
several  weeks,  and  besides  the  expense  of  the  rent 
of  the  theatre,  and  several  salaries  to  pay,  I  had 
the  additional  rent  of  a  house  in  South  Street,  Park 
Lane,  as  well  as  my  old  house  at  Canonbury. 

The  cast  of  "  The  Romance  of  a  Shopwalker  " 
included,  among  others,  my  wife  (May  Palfrey,) 
the  late  Miss  M.  A.  Victor,  Nina  Boucicault,  the 
late  Sidney  Brough,  and  David  James,  Jr.,  and 
Miss  Annie  Hill. 

223 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

The  play  made  no  money,  so  after  a  couple  of 
months  I  "  put  up  the  shutters "  and  again  said, 
"  Next,  please." 

It  took  me  time  to  discover  that  continuous  man- 
agement was  not  a  "  bed  of  roses  "  or  a  life  of 
sunshine.  So  I  threw  up  the  managerial  sponge 
for  a  while,  and  in  the  autumn  of  1896  was  very 
pleased  to  accept  an  engagement  to  play  under  the 
management  of  George  Alexander  (now  Sir 
George)  in  a  piece  called  "  The  Little  Dodge." 
Other  members  of  the  company  were  Miss  Ellis 
Jeffreys,  Fred  Terry,  and  the  late  Alfred  Maltby. 

I  don't  know  how  it  benefited  George  Alexan- 
der's pocket,  but  it  kept  me  free  from  anxiety  for 
several  months  and  I  had  a  most  pleasant  time. 

I  then  had  an  offer  from  Arthur  Chudleigh  to 
play  in  a  four-act  comedy  by  the  late  Ralph 
Lumley,  called  "  Belle  Bellair,"  at  the  Avenue 
Theatre  (now  the  Playhouse).  Chudleigh  engaged 
me  at  a  very  substantial  salary. 

The  cast  of  "  Belle  Bellair  "  was  headed  by  Mrs. 
John  Wood,  and  it  also  included  Miss  Irene  Van- 
brugh,  Martin  Harvey,  Gillie  Farquar,  and  a  very 
handsome  lady,  Miss  Fitzroy,  who  bore  a 
remarkable  likeness  to  Mrs.  Langtry  (now  Lady 
de  Bathe). 

It  was  a  well-written  and  entertaining  play,  but, 
alas,  the  public  did  not  respond. 

A  few  days  after  we  opened,  at  the  invitation 
of  one  of  the  "  backers  "  of  this  play,  I  went  with 
him  to  Farnham,  to  fish  for  trout)  and  while  we 
whipped  the  stream,  he  talked  of  the  piece  and  asked 
me  what  I  thought  of  the  "  business  "  it  was  doing. 
224 


rito/o  it:  >-  />.  n<m- 


WEEDON    GROSSMITH    AS    "  HAM  l.K  I 


W.    S.    PENLEY 

I  replied  that  I  was  not  aware  of  the  amount  of 
the  returns,  as  when  just  playing  at  a  salary  and 
taking  no  share  in  the  management  (or  profits), 
I  considered  it  an  impertinence  on  the  part  of  an 
actor  to  ask  questions  on  this  subject,  and  also  very 
bad  policy,  as  I  had  found  out  on  the  only  occasion 
I  had  made  this  error  of  judgment  and  good  taste, 
for  in  answer  to  my  inquiries  as  to  the  "  business " 
my  then  manager  had  replied,  "  It 's  awfully  nice  of 
you  to  take  an  interest  in  my  affairs,  and  I  am  sure 
your  reason  is  a  sympathetic  one,  so  I  don't  mind 
telling  you  that  we  are  losing  heavily  every  week, 
and  as  your  salary  is  the  highest  in  the  company, 
you  would  greatly  relieve  our  responsibility  if  you 
would  play  for  half.  Of  course  I  should  never 
have  asked  you  such  a  thing  if  you  had  not  seemed 
so  interested  and  so  distressed  to  hear  of  the  bad 
houses  we  are  playing  to;  your  sympathy  enables 
me  to  take  advantage  of  your  kindness  if  you  will 
permit  me  to  do  so?  "    Well  —  he  did. 

When  the  "  backer  "  of  "  Belle  Bellair  "  told  me 
the  figures  we  were  then  playing  to,  I  was  so  shocked 
that  I  lost  a  big  fish  by  jerking  the  line,  and  my 
embarrassment  was  greatly  increased  by  being  asked 
for  "  my  advice  "  as  to  whether  it  would  be  best  to 
continue  the  run  or  close  the  theatre.  I  replied 
that  "as  an  actor  my  advice  is,  run  the  play  for 
six  months,  as  a  manager  put  up  the  shutters  as 
soon  as  ever  you  can."  He  adopted  my  managerial 
advice  and  closed  on  the  following  Saturday,  after 
a  run  of  ten  nights! 

Shortly  after  this  episode  I  produced,  in  con- 
junction with  W.  S.  Penley  ("  The  Private  Secre- 

225 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

tary  "  and  "  Charley's  Aunt  "),  a  farce  called  M  The 
MacHaggis,"  by  J.  K.  Jerome  and  Eden  Phillpotts, 
at  the  Globe  Theatre,  now  defunct.  This  was 
a  very  original  and  funny  piece,  and  deserved  a 
longer  life  than  it  enjoyed;  perhaps  it  came  ten 
years  too  soon  —  the  London  public  are  enthusias- 
tic at  the  present  moment  about  an  entirely  Scotch 
play  —  and  "  The  MacHaggis  "  was  only  Scotch  in 
places  or  perhaps  I  should  say  parts,  and  any  and 
every  one  could  understand  it.  It  will  always  be 
a  mystery  to  me  why  "  The  MacHaggis  "  did  not 
run  a  year  at  least. 

It  was  owing  to  the  enormous  success  of 
"  Charley's  Aunt "  that  Penley  retired  fom  the 
stage,  and  I  consider  his  absence  from  it  a  very 
great  loss  to  the  public;  he  was  a  most  original 
comedian,  his  methods  were  entirely  his  own,  he 
imitated  no  one  though  hundreds  have  imitated 
him.  It  was  impossible  to  refrain  from  laughter 
when  he  was  on  the  stage. 

I  believe  it  was  the  intention  of  Brandon  Thomas, 
the  author  of  "  Charley's  Aunt,"  that  the  play 
should  contain  a  larger  element  of  comedy,  as 
opposed  to  actual  farce,  than  it  did  when  it  was 
produced  in  London,  and  Thomas  expressed  his 
annoyance  to  me  that  during  the  trial  trip  in  the 
provinces  Penley  had  "  converted  his  Comedy  into 

a  d Farce  ";   however,  it  eventually  made  the 

fortunes  of  both  Author  and  Actor. 

After  "The  MacHaggis"  had  retired,  I  played 
in  "  Miss  Francis  of  Yale  "  at  the  same  theatre,  and 
a  rather  amusing  incident  occurred  one  evening. 
One  of  the  characters  played  by  the  late  Miss  Ethel 
226 


MAY  LEVER  PALFREY  IN  ''THE  NEW  BOY 


WOODCOTE   PRINCE 

Hope  (the  wife  of  E.  B.  Norman,  our  manager, 
who  produced  the  play)  suspected  burglars  to  be 
lurking  in  her  grounds,  and  gave  the  order  to  "  let 
loose  the  dog,"  and  loud  barking  and  other  "  dog 
noises  "  —  imitated  by  the  call  boy  and  prompter  at 
the  wing  —  followed.  Then  a  splendid  bull  terrier 
(my  own  Woodcote  Prince)  dashed  across  the  stage 
in  pursuit  of  Arthur  Playfair  and  Reeves  Smith, 
the  two  juveniles,  who  had  to  appear  frightened  to 
death.  On  this  particular  occasion  Woodcote 
Prince  rushed  on,  and  made  for  the  footlights, 
sat  down  in  the  centre  of  the  stage  and  quietly 
scratched  his  ear,  then  got  up,  wagged  his 
tail  (which  was  not  docked),  and  quietly  trotted 
off  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  stage,  apparently  much 
pleased  with  himself,  but  judging  from  the  sounds 
which  came  from  the  Royal  Box,  not  nearly  so 
pleased  as  his  late  Majesty  Edward  VII,  who 
loudly  applauded  Woodcote  Prince,  but  I  did 
not  allow  him  to  take  a  call  at  the  end  of  the  act. 
I  may  add  that  I  have  never  heard  his  late  Majesty 
laugh  more  heartily  than  on  this  occasion.  Just 
as  the  play  was  getting  well  established  and  being 
talked  about  —  always  a  splendid  advertisement  — 
the  public  body,  who  were  responsible  for  such 
work  in  those  days,  took  up  the  whole  road  and  the 
pavement  round  the  theatre  —  this  went  on  for 
weeks,  and  in  bad  weather  —  what  play  could  stand 
against  it?  Poor  E.  B.  Norman  had  put  a  good 
deal  of  his  own  money  into  the  enterprise,  but  it 
all  went,  literally  into  the  gutter.  The  theatre  had 
to  close.    I  said,  "  Next,  please." 


227 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

Lord  Blyth's  Dinner  Party  to  the  Prince 
of.  Wales.  The  Savage  Club.  Arthur 
Roberts 

ON  May  16,  1897,  I  dined  at  Lord  Blyth's 
I  —  then  Sir  James  Blyth  —  at  33  Portland 
)  Place,  to  meet  H.  R.  H.,  the  Prince 
of  Wales  and  Prince  Edward  of  Saxe- 
Weimar,  and  after  dinner  we  smoked  and  chatted 
in  the  drawing  room  while  H.  R.  H.  played  at 
cards  with  Lord  Morris,  Sir  Walter  Gilbey,  and, 
I  think,  our  host.  He  won  about  fifteen  pounds  and 
seemed  quite  delighted.  During  the  evening  I  was 
looking  for  something  to  smoke  when  His  Royal 
Highness  most  kindly  offered  me  a  cigar  from  his 
case.  I  very  highly  appreciated  the  compliment 
and  slipped  the  cigar  in  my  pocket  and  took  an- 
other from  somewhere  on  a  table  to  smoke,  de- 
termined to  keep  the  one  presented  by  the  Prince 
as  an  heirloom  and  a  souvenir  of  an  evening  to 
be  remembered.  I  seldom  smoke  cigars  and 
sometimes  when  I  have  a  cigar  given  me,  I  put  it 
in  a  drawer  or  a  cabinet,  and  if  I  run  short  and  some 
one  wants  one,  I  look  about  and  can  frequently 
find  one. 

My  friend  Mr.  Edward  Michael,  who  for  many 
years  was  my  trusty  and  trusted  manager,  is  very 
fond  of  a  good  cigar,  and  when  he  comes  to  lunch 
228 


A   ROYAL   CIGAR 

I  have  too  frequently  discovered  to  my  regret  that 
I  have  forgotten  to  order  a  new  box  and  I  am  out 
of  cigars,  I  go  on  the  rampage  looking  in  holes  and 
corners  for  one  of  my  friends'  presents  to  me  to 
give  to  Michael.  One  day  he  came  to  see  me  and 
after  lunch  I  was  chaffed  as  usual  by  him  about 
forgetting  to  lay  in  a  large  stock  of  cigars.  I  knew 
I  had  some  somewhere  and  commenced  to  search, 
and  on  opening  a  private  bureau  I  almost  at  once 
discovered  a  beauty,  which  I  gave  to  Michael. 

"  That 's  a  good  'un,  Weedon,"  he  said  after  smok- 
ing a  few  whiffs  and  seemed  to  thoroughly  enjoy  it, 
and  I  only  discovered  later  to  my  intense  disgust 
that  I  had  given  him  the  cigar  that  I  had  been 
treasuring  up,  the  one  presented  to  me  by  "  the  first 
gentleman  in  the  land."  I  did  n't  get  much 
sympathy  from  Michael  afterwards  when  I  told 
him  of  my  misfortune;  he  roared  with  laughter, 
and  declared  that  things  in  this  life  balanced  them- 
selves and  that,  "  what  was  one  man's  loss  was 
another  man's  gain,"  and  he  hoped  in  the  future 
that  I  would  cultivate  society  more  than  I  had  in 
the  past  if  only  for  his  sake,  for  he  liked  good 
tobacco. 

When  Mr.  Henry  Gold  married  one  of  Lord 
Blyth's  daughters  I  was  anxious  to  give  her  a  little 
wedding  present,  not  the  ordinary  kind  such  as  a  toast 
rack,  egg  boiler,  or  an  engraving  of  "  The  Squire's 
Daughter  "  in  a  plush  frame,  and  knowing  she  some- 
what favoured  "  the  old,"  I  was  determined  to  give 
her  something  good.  I  went  to  the  north  of  Lon- 
don where  I  could  occasionally  pick  up  the  gen- 
uine thing,  and  I  hied  me  to  Clapton,  through  the 

229 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

pretty  village  (if  one  may  so  call  it)  of  Stoke  New- 
ington  where  the  New  River  meanders  through 
Clissold  Park.  About  a  mile  and  a  half  further  I 
remembered  I  had  once  bought  a  fine  old  teapot  at  a 
private  house,  where  they  had  two  or  three  little 
things  in  the  front  window.  The  door  was  locked 
as  usual,  but  after  knocking  hard  it  was  opened 
a  little  way  with  the  chain  still  up.  The  elderly 
owner,  on  seeing  me  for  the  second  time,  said,  "  Oh, 
it 's  you,  is  it?  Come  in,"  and  admitted  me  and  shut 
the  door.  I  informed  him  that  I  was  on  the  lookout 
for  something  old  and  good,  and  he  replied,  "  Then 
I  've  just  got  what  you  want,"  and  produced  a  very 
fine  old  barometer.  It  was  in  excellent  condition, 
and  I  doubt  whether  I  have  seen  a  better  one  of  the 
kind.  I  thought  it  would  make  a  capital  little  wed- 
ding present,  and  on  hearing  what  he  wanted  for  it 
I  settled  with  him  on  the  spot.  It  was  exceedingly 
cheap  and  I  could  n't  refrain  from  telling  him  so, 
though  it  was  quite  unusual  for  me  to  be  so  un- 
diplomatic. He  looked  at  me  very  straight,  and 
verified  my  remark  by  saying,  "  Yes,  it  is  cheap, 
but  I  got  it  cheap,  and  for  a  quick  sale  I  can  sell  it 
cheap,"  and  with  a  piece  of  brown  paper  wrapped 
round  it  I  carried  it  back  to  Canonbury,  where  I 
was  living,  and  sent  it  on  to  Portland  Place  with 
my  best  wishes. 

A  few  days  afterwards  I  saw  Lord  Blyth,  and  he 
told  me  that  his  prospective  son-in-law  was 
more  than  delighted  at  my  present,  for  it  was 
absolutely  "  the  image  of  their  old  barometer  that 
had  been  stolen  from  them  a  short  time  previously, 
and  in  fact,  if  they  did  n't  know  to  the  contrary, 
230 


AUTOGRAPH-HUNTING 

they  would  have  thought  it  was  the  same  one."  I 
was  very  gratified  at  having  made  such  a  good  selec- 
tion, and  my  wife  advised  me  to  look  up  the  old 
man  near  Clapton  again  and  see  if  he  had  anything 
else  worth  having.  I  went  there,  and  although  it 
was  only  a  couple  of  days  later,  the  house  was 
closed,  barred  up,  and  a  board  announced  "  To 
let,"  and  on  inquiry  from  a  neighbour  I  heard  that 
the  owner  had  "  gone  in  the  night,"  leaving  no 
address. 

The  autograph-hunting  fiend  I  regard  as  a  pest 
and  a  nuisance,  and  I  am  glad  to  say  the  fever  is 
dying  out.  About  eight  years  ago  the  craze  was 
at  its  height:  the  autograph  hunter  does  not  bother 
me  much  because  I  don't  play  noble  parts,  but  I  ex- 
pect I  had  a  goodmany  applications  for  my  signature, 
for  I  generally  charged  sixpence  or  a  shilling  and 
was  able  to  contribute  about  five  pounds  a  year  to  the 
Actors'  Benevolent  Fund  from  this  source.  One  day 
during  the  run  of  "  The  Man  from  Blankley's "  at 
the  Haymarket,  as  I  left  the  stage  door  in  Suffolk 
Street,  I  was  accosted  by  a  young  lady  with  book 
and  stylo  pen  in  hand,  who  asked  me  for  my  auto- 
graph. I  acceded  with  pleasure  and  asked  her  for 
a  few  stamps  for  the  A.  B.  Fund  in  exchange.  She 
seemed  quite  distressed,  and  said  she  really  could  n't 
afford  it;  she  had  had  to  pay  half  a  crown  for 
Lewis  Waller's  and  one  and  sixpence  for  Martin 
Harvey's,  which  made  it  very  expensive  to  collect. 
I  told  her  as  mine  was  not  so  valuable  —  as  I  do  not 
play  romantic  parts  —  I  only  asked  for  a  few  stamps. 
She  seemed  worried,  and  hesitated,  and  after  some 
consideration  said,  "  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  will  do. 

231 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

I  hear  that  you  are  also  an  artist,  so  if  you  will 
draw  me  a  nice  sketch  in  my  book  and  sign  it,  I 
will  give  you  sixpence!"  I  raised  my  hat  and 
thanked  her  and  continued  on  my  way.  The  worm 
will  turn;   so  sometimes  will  the  comedian. 

The  Savage  Club 

Personally  I  very  much  preferred  the  Savage 
Club  when  it  was  a  one-room  club  in  the  days  when 
it  was  located  at  Haxell's  in  the  Strand,  or  at  the 
Savoy  when  members  met  entirely  for  conversa- 
tion, without  the  addition  of  card-playing,  which 
I  consider  drove  us  into  our  present  palatial  prem- 
ises, where  the  members  are  now  scattered,  many  in 
the  billiard  rooms,  dozens  in  the  cardrooms,  some 
in  the  dining-room,  and  a  few  in  the  bar!  by  far  the 
most  cheery  corner  of  the  Club. 

We  leased  Nos.  6  and  7  Adelphi  Terrace, 
which  were  built  by  those  famous  architects,  the 
brothers  Adam,  with  the  Pergolesi  swags  and  the 
Angelica  Kauffman  ceilings,  and  converted  the  two 
large  rooms  on  the  first  floor  into  one  huge  dining- 
room  facing  the  Thames,  one  of  the  finest  sites  in 
London;  but  the  adjoining  house  had  only  a  plain 
ceiling,  so  at  great  expense  they  copied  the  ori- 
ginal in  No.  6  to  match,  and  spent  a  large  sum  of 
money  in  various  improvements.  And  to  pay  for 
the  great  outlay  that  these  many  alterations  in- 
curred, it  was  decided  to  elect  two  hundred  and 
fifty  new  members.  So,  whenever  any  of  the  newly 
elected  members  criticised  the  manners  and  ways 
of  the  old  members,  which  some  of  them  were  rather 
232 


MRS.    WKF.DON    GROSSMITH 


THE    SAVAGE   CLUB 

fond  of  doing,  the  old  members,  instead  of  retaliat- 
ing, simply  pointed  to  the  new  Adam  ceiling 
to  recall  to  the  recently  elected  why  they  were 
elected  at  all.  There  is  no  occasion  to  say  any- 
thing sarcastic  or  bitter,  it  is  far  better  to  point  to 
the  ceiling,  and  I  am  bound  to  admit  that  the  new 
members  can  take  chaff  as  well  as  the  old,  and  the 
response  is  generally,  "  Waiter,  attend  to  these 
gentlemen." 

E.  J.  Odell,  who  is  now  comfortably  quartered 
in  the  Charterhouse,  is  and  has  been  for  thirty-five 
years  a  landmark  at  the  Savage  Club,  and  is  almost 
as  active  and  jolly  now  as  he  was  when  he  first  good- 
naturedly  used  to  entertain  the  Savages  and  their 
guests  at  the  Saturday  night  dinners  with  his  clever 
and  curiously  original  recitations,  and  no  man  has 
ever  "  paid  for  his  salt "  more  fully  than  Odell  has 
done  on  those  Saturday  evenings.  Odell  really 
belongs  to  the  Dr.  Johnson  and  Boswell  days,  and 
I  am  sorry  for  what  Johnson  and  Boswell  missed 
in  not  knowing  Odell.  A  thorough  bohemian,  very 
proud,  poor,  and  independent,  with  the  most  origi- 
nal manner  conceivable. 

It  was  always  a  mystery  where  Odell  lived,  and 
certainly  not  our  business  to  pry  into  this  matter, 
but  I,  like  other  inquisitive  busy-bodies,  was  de- 
sirous of  discovering  his  place  of  abode.  Some 
declared  he  lived  north,  near  the  Nag's  Head, 
Holloway;  others  swore  he  resided  at  Fulham. 

I  was  determined  to  solve  this  mystery,  a  very 
great  impertinence  on  my  part,  but  I  was  an  old 
Savage  and  we  have  no  laws  of  etiquette,  so  when 
a  brother  Savage  and  myself  were  leaving  the  Club 

233 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

at  two  in  the  morning  in  company  with  Odell,  we 
determined  to  see  him  home. 

When  we  got  into  the  Strand,  Odell,  probably 
bored  with  our  society,  said,  "  I  '11  wish  you  good- 
night." We  were  not  going  to  be  choked  off  like 
this  and  we  asked  him  which  way  he  was  going. 
He  replied,  "  Not  your  way,  I  'm  going  north. 
Good-night."  We  replied  that  we  were  going 
north  also  and  we  could  all  go  together.  So  we 
wandered  towards  the  Pentonville  Road.  He  sud- 
denly said,  "  Now,  I  '11  wish  you  good-night."  We 
asked  him  whether  he  lived  there,  and  he  replied, 
"  No,  I  thought  you  did.  I  live  in  the  opposite 
direction.  I  had  hoped  I  was  going  to  have  a 
cigar  with  you.  However,  I  think  we  can  get  what 
we  want  here  " ;  and  he  tapped  at  a  side  door  of 
a  public  house,  and  curiously  enough  we  were 
admitted.  After  a  little  refreshment  we  all  three 
left,  and  as  Odell  said  he  was  going  down  to 
Charing  Cross,  we  said  that  that  was  our  way  and 
we  would  accompany  him.  It  was  past  three  when 
we  got  near  Maiden  Lane,  Strand,  the  Spooferies 
Club,  I  fancy  it  was.  Then  suddenly  he  said,  "  I  '11 
wish  you  good-night.  I  'm  going  into  this  Club 
for  five  minutes."  We  suggested  that  we  should 
come  with  him  for  that  five  minutes.  "  Sorry," 
he  answered,  "  guests  are  not  admitted."  We  found 
out  afterwards  this  was  not  the  truth. 

He  wished  us  good-night,  and  then,  with  a  dia- 
bolical grin  on  his  face,  he  hissed  out,  "  And  now 
you  don't  know  where  I  live,"  and  left  us  on  the 
pavement,  looking  and  feeling  very  foolish.  In 
the  old  days  of  the  Savage  at  Savoy  Mansions  one 
234 


THE    SAVAGE   CLUB 

of  our  popular  members,  James  Albery,  the  author 
of  "  The  Two  Roses "  and  many  other  successful 
plays  and  books,  had  been  in  bad  health  for  some 
time  and  his  sight  was  a  little  affected. 

One  evening  he  brought  in  several  guests,  and 
seeing  me  in  dress  clothes  and  not  recognising  me 
for  a  moment,  mistook  me  for  the  waiter  and  or- 
dered me  to  fetch  certain  drinks.  I  smiled  at  him 
and  naturally  did  not  obey  his  instructions. 

When  he  found  he  was  not  being  served,  he  got 
up  with  his  friends  and  left  the  Club,  very  much 
disgusted  with  the  inattention  of  the  "  waiter."  A 
few  days  afterwards  he  came  in  the  Club  and  was 
complaining  of  his  sight.  I  then  reminded  him 
that  a  night  or  two  previously  he  had  mistaken  me 
for  the  waiter.  "  Oh  yes,"  he  said,  "  to  be  sure, 
I  did.  I  remember  now,  but  I  made  that  all  right 
the  following  day  —  I  apologised  to  the  waiter." 

I  don't  suppose  anyone  was  more  liked  in  the 
Club  than  Arthur  Mathison,  but  he  always  imag- 
ined it  was  the  reverse.  He  always  had  a  grievance. 
He  certainly  was  very  unfortunate,  and  although 
a  very  hard  worker  and  an  abstemious  man,  had 
always  great  difficulty  in  making  two  ends  meet. 
Poor  chap,  he  never  had  any  money  and  was  always 
hard  up.  His  requirements  were  very  modest,  but 
he  never  made  sufficient  to  provide  even  for  his 
very  small  wants. 

One  evening  he  came  into  the  little  writing-room 
in  a  state  of  absolute  despair,  and  in  contrast  to 
his  misery  heard  the  roars  of  laughter  and  jollity 
coming  from  the  big  room  beyond. 

A  great  event  was  being  celebrated.     We  had 

235 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

drawn  the  tickets  for  the  Derby  Sweepstake,  and 
Proctor,  the  artist  and  well-known  cartoonist,  had 
drawn  the  first  prize  of  fifty  pounds,  and  was  re- 
minded by  Charley  Yates  that  the  custom  was  to 
stand  champagne  at  once  all  round,  which  Proctor 
was  delighted  to  do. 

At  this  moment  Mathison  entered  the  room  look- 
ing at  his  worst.  Proctor,  in  a  short  speech  punc- 
tuated by  the  popping  of  corks,  kept  alluding  to 
the  fact  that  his  luck  was  "  so  unexpected."  He 
said,  "  I  put  down  my  sovereign  and  said  good- 
bye to  it,  I  regarded  it  as  gone,  gone  for  ever,  and 
now  I  find  myself  with  fifty  pounds  in  notes  in  my 
hand,  as  if  they  had  dropped  from  the  clouds." 

These  were  dangerous  remarks  to  make  at  the 
Savage  Club  in  those  days,  or  in  fact  at  any  club. 
"  Waiter,"  continued  Proctor,  "  open  plenty  of 
wine,"  which  was  done.  We  all  drank  to  each 
other,  and  Proctor,  who  was  getting  quite  flushed, 
was  breaking  into  Scotch  songs  on  French  wine. 
Imagine  the  mixture.  Several  people,  I  think, 
must  have  come  in  from  the  street.  They  were 
certainly  not  members  of  the  Club,  but  they  all 
drank  freely  of  Proctor's  wine,  and  we  voted  to 
music  that  he  was  "  a  jolly  good  fellow." 

Mathison  retired  to  the  writing- room,  but  we 
kept  up  our  little  festivities  with  the  greatest 
enthusiasm. 

I  have  never  seen  Proctor  so  jolly,  even  when 
the  bill  was  presented  for  the  wine  and  cigars, 
which  amounted  to  over  £12.  Some  of  these 
ruffians  (who  had  apparently  come  in  from  the 
street)  must  have  drunk  a  bottle  apiece. 
236 


THE    SAVAGE   CLUB 

Whilst  Proctor  was  roaring  with  laughter,  a 
waiter,  entering  the  room,  informed  him  that  Mr. 
Mathison  would  like  to  speak  to  him  for  a  moment 
in  the  writing-room.  Proctor  rose  and  followed 
the  waiter. 

Mathison  in  a  few  words  informed  Proctor  that 
at  last  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  and  was  deter- 
mined to  put  an  end  to  his  unsuccessful  career  that 
very  evening.  He  had  determined  to  jump  from 
Waterloo  Bridge  and  free  himself  from  the  strug- 
gles and  worry  of  this  wretched  world.  I  need 
hardly  say  this  announcement  banished  the  smile 
from  Proctor's  hitherto  jovial  face. 

Mathison,  continuing,  said  there  was  only  one 
thing  that  could  save  him  from  this  miserable  fate 
and  that  was  "  thirty  pounds,"  and  if  Proctor  would 
lend  him  that  paltry  amount,  it  would  save  his  life. 
Proctor  was  so  taken  off  his  guard  that  he  said 
he  would  consult  his  bank  book,  which  he  knew 
was  at  low-water  mark,  when  he  returned  home 
and  let  him  know  early  the  next  morning. 

"  You  need  n't  do  that,"  said  Mathison,  "  you 
have  the  money  with  you  in  your  pocket." 

"  Oh  yes,  so  I  have,"  answered  Proctor,  as  if  he 
had  forgotten  it,  "  but  you  see  —  " 

Proctor  was  trying  to  find  some  reasonable  ex- 
cuse, when  Mathison  interrupted  him  by  saying, 
"  I  would  n't  have  asked  you  if  I  thought  you  were 
in  need  of  the  money,  but  you  so  repeatedly  said, 
'  It  was  so  unexpected.  It  was  a  windfall  which 
you  never  expected  '  and  it  will  be  the  means  of 
saving  my  life." 

There  was  no  help  for  it,  and  Proctor  parted 

237 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

with  his  thirty  pounds  in  notes.  Poor  Mathison 
died  a  few  months  afterwards,  so  all  that  Proctor 
had  of  his  £50  prize  was  £8. 

One  night  at  the  Savage,  Robert  Ganthony,  the 
well-known  entertainer  and  author  of  several  plays, 
including  "  A  Brace  of  Partridges,"  said  he  had 
written  a  play  that  would  make  my  fortune.  I  took 
that  statement  with  a  grain  of  salt,  but  I  expressed 
my  eagerness  to  read  it.  He  immediately  produced 
it  from  his  pocket  and  thrust  it  into  my  hands,  and 
I  made  the  usual  promise  to  read  the  play  at  once 
and  report  my  decision  to  him  in  a  few  days.  I 
put  the  prospective  gold-mine  under  my  arm  and 
"  cabbed  "  it  home.  I  suppose  other  things  diverted 
my  thoughts  —  they  do  when  you  are  in  manage- 
ment —  and  I  forgot  to  read  the  play,  in  fact  I 
could  n't  find  it. 

About  a  fortnight  afterwards  I  strolled  into  the 
Club,  and  Ganthony,  who  was  dining  with  some 
friends,  rose  from  his  seat  and  with  a  cheery  smile 
asked  me  what  I  thought  of  his  farce. 

I  could  n't  tell  him  I  had  n't  even  looked  at  it. 
So  I  replied,  "  What  I  've  read  is  very  good,  most 
amusing.  Good-bye,"  I  said,  hurrying  away.  He 
said,  "  Have  you  come  to  the  scene  where  the  par- 
son discovers  you  making  love  to  the  housemaid?  " 

This  was  rather  awkward,  and  I  stammered  out, 
"  No,  not  yet.  In  fact  I  Ve  only  read  half  the  first 
act.    Good-bye  1" 

"  I  wish  you  'd  hurry  up,  Weedon,"  he  said,  "  be- 
cause there  are  several  managers  after  it"  (authors 
always  say  this).    I  promised  to  finish  the  play  the 
following  evening. 
238 


THE   SAVAGE    CLUB 

Three  or  four  more  days  passed,  and  I  dropped 
into  the  Club  for  a  minute  to  see  if  there  were  any 
letters  for  me,  and  Ganthony  was  in  the  hall. 
"  How  goes  it?  "  he  said.  I  replied  I  was  feeling 
very  fit.  "No,"  he  said,  "I  mean  the  play! 
Have  n't  you  finished  it  yet?  " 

11  No,  not  all  of  it,"  I  said,  "  but  it 's  jolly  funny. 
Good-night!" 

He  held  me  by  the  hand  and  said,  "  One  minute. 
Have  you  come  to  the  part  where  the  old  Colonel 
falls  into  the  bath?" 

"  Not  yet,"  I  said,  and  rushed  out  of  the  Club. 

I  made  up  my  mind  not  to  enter  the  Club  again 
till  I  had  found  that  play  and  read  it. 

We  searched  the  house,  the  drawers  of  several 
old  bureaux  were  turned  inside  out,  cupboards  and 
bookshelves  dismantled,  till  my  housekeeper  sug- 
gested that  perhaps  I  had  left  the  play  in  the  cab!! 
That,  of  course,  was  ridiculous,  but  nevertheless 
there  would  be  no  harm  in  my  calling  at  Scotland 
Yard  to  inquire  at  the  lost  property  office.    I  did  so. 

They  informed  me  that  "  the  play  was  left  in  a 
hansom  cab  a  month  ago,"  April  14th,  and  the 
name  and  address  of  the  author,  Robert  Ganthony, 
The  Poplars,  Richmond,  being  on  the  cover,  it  was 
returned  to  him  on  the  following  morning.  And 
he  had,  to  the  amusement  of  the  Club,  been  pulling 
my  leg,  and  pretty  hard  too,  I  assure  you!  ! 

I  was  asked  to  play  Sam  Weller  for  a  benefit, 
in  the  trial  scene  from  "  Pickwick,"  and  accepted 
with  great  pleasure.  Then  it  suddenly  occurred 
to  me,  Who  is  going  to  play  the  Judge?  This  is 
a  very  important  matter,   since  it  is  of  no  use 

239 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

your  playing  your  part  seriously  if  you  have  an 
irresponsible  Judge,  because  it  is  in  his  power  as 
Judge  to  guy  the  whole  thing  if  he  wishes  to, 
and  get  all  the  laughter  and  applause,  and  if  you 
are  playing  one  of  the  subordinate  parts  and  at- 
tempt to  be  funny  he  can  tell  you  to  sit  down 
and  you  must  obey!  On  hearing  that  Arthur 
Roberts  was  going  to  play  the  Judge,  I  suddenly 
remembered  that  I  had  an  important  engagement 
in  the  country  on  that  date  and  unfortunately 
could  n't  appear. 

I  heard  afterwards  it  was  one  of  the  luckiest 
escapes  I  ever  had.  Brandon  Thomas  played  Ser- 
geant Buzfuz,  and  whenever  he  spoke,  Roberts  re- 
quested him  to  "  sit  down,"  and  said  that  he  was 
"  out  of  order,"  and  if  he  detained  the  Court  again 
by  unnecessary  piffle,  the  usher  would  remove  him. 
He  imitated  the  man  who  played  Sam  Winkle, 
evoking  roars  of  laughter  from  the  audience;  whilst 
others  were  saying  their  lines,  he  was  taking  copious 
drinks  from  a  quart  tankard  of  ale  which  he  had 
beside  him  on  the  bench.  By  this  time  the  play 
was  reduced  to  a  monologue  entertainment  by 
Arthur  Roberts,  which  the  audience  highly  appre- 
ciated. He  warned  the  jury  to  be  careful  of  their 
verdict.  If  the  defendant  was  guilty,  it  was  his 
own  fault  for  not  getting  a  bit  back  by  hedging 
with  "  Woodecote  Pride."  If  the  defendant  was 
innocent,  why  did  he  do  a  double  in  the  Lincoln- 
shire and  take  a  20  to  i  chance  about  Flying  Fox, 
knowing  that  Rothschild's  filly  was  a  "  blankety 
snip?"  In  his  opinion  and  also  that  of  several 
members  of  the  Badminton  Club  (taking  another 
240 


ARTHUR   ROBERTS 

long  drink  and  lighting  a  cigar  to  give  him  time 
to  think  of  more  horrible  gags)  he  said  the  de- 
fendant had  overstepped  the  bounds  of  courtesy 
and  violated  the  rules  of  the  Jockey  Club,  and  with 
much  regret  he  must  give  the  verdict  for  the  plain- 
tiff, and  the  defendant  must  henceforth  be  warned 
off  the  Turf  and  no  longer  permitted  to  have  a  "  bit 
on  "  with  Dicky  Dunn  or  his  brother  pencillers. 
The  curtain  descended  with  roars  of  laughter  and 
rounds  of  applause.  It  was  a  great  success  for 
Arthur  Roberts,  and  indeed  for  the  benefit,  for 
they  played  to  a  packed  audience.  But  the  other 
members  of  the  cast  were  naturally  indignant  at 
being  made  fools  of,  and  whenever  I  am  asked  to 
play  in  the  trial  scene  from  "  Pickwick,"  I  always 
inquire  first,  "  Who  is  going  to  play  the  Judge?" 

On  one  occasion  I  spent  a  delightful  evening 
at  Miss  Ewretta  Lawrence's  artistic  home  in  St. 
John's  Wood,  where  the  Sister  Arts  were  fully 
represented.  I  lolled  in  a  white  wicker  chair  in 
the  conservatory,  chatting  to  fair  women  and  jeal- 
ous men.  Naturally  I  did  n't  know  that  the  chair 
on  which  I  was  seated  had  just  been  painted,  and 
white  paint  on  cane  takes  a  long  time  to  become 
thoroughly  dry.  When  I  got  home  and  removed 
my  clothes,  I  found  they  were  stamped  with  little 
white  spots  all  over;  the  suit  couldn't  be  cleaned, 
but  it  was  an  old  one,  and  I  was  rather  pleased  to 
put  it  aside  for  the  new  one  I  had  just  had  built. 

The  picturesque  Ewretta  Lawrence,  whom  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  again  the  following  week, 
expressed  great  regret,  although  she  was  smiling  (a 
way  she  has),  and  said  "the  chair  you  sat  on  was 

241 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

the  most  comfortable  one  in  the  house,  and  I 
believe  Murray  Carson  knew  that  it  was  still 
wet  with  paint,  otherwise  he  would  most  certainly 
have  been  sitting  on  it."  "  I  wish  he  had,"  I  re- 
marked. "  Never  mind,"  said  Ewretta,  "  forgive 
me,  don't  be  cross.  (Come  and  dine  next  Wednes- 
day, otherwise  I  shall  think  you  are  offended."  I 
laughed  and  cheerily  accepted  her  kind  invitation, 
and  on  the  following  Wednesday  was  sitting  at 
dinner  in  her  pretty  but  rather  small  dining-room 
in  the  Wellington  Road  in  company  with,  among 
others,  Locke,  the  dramatist  and  author  of  "  The 
Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne  "  —  and  many  other 
entertaining  works — and  H.  J.  Biron,  the  magis- 
trate. With  the  usual  vanity  of  man  I  was  rather 
pleased  with  my  new  dress  togs.  I  was  feeling  and 
hoping  that  I  was  at  my  best,  and  so  I  was,  until 
one  of  the  maids  caught  her  foot  in  the  fender  while 
handing  me  some  sauce  and  emptied  the  entire  con- 
tents of  the  sauce-boat  down  my  shoulders  and 
waistcoat.  I  forget  whether  I  said  D 1  When- 
ever I  go  to  Miss  Lawrence's  now,  knowing  that 
fate  is  against  me,  I  hire  a  dress-suit  from  Mike 
Angel  for  the  occasion! 


242 


Photo  Alfred  Ellis 
FRED.    TERRY   AND    WEEDON   GROSSMITH    IN    "THE    LITTLE    DODGE " 


CHAPTER   XIX 

Jack  Sheppard  and  Highwaymen 

ABOUT  the  year  1896  I  commissioned  the 
/^L  late  Joseph  Hatton  to  write  a  play  for 
f  ^  me  on  the  life  of  Jack  Sheppard  the 
•"■  •""  Housebreaker.  I  was  perhaps  influenced 
by  many  friends  who  declared  I  had  a  strong  re- 
semblance in  face  and  stature  to  that  gentleman.  I 
suppose  there  must  have  been  a  likeness  in  a  way, 
for  Sir  Melville  Macnaghton,  the  "  boss  "  of  the 
Criminal  Investigation  Department  of  Scotland 
Yard,  has  my  portrait  as  Sheppard  hanging  next 
to  the  print  of  the  real  Sheppard,  taken  from  the 
original  portrait  painted  of  him  in  the  condemned 
cell  by  Sir  James  Thornhill,  a  commission  from 
King  George  I! 

Joseph  Hatton  very  quickly  realised  that  I  did  not 
want  the  romantic  milksop  Sheppard  on  the  stage — 
generally  played  by  a  woman!  The  only  possible 
reason  I  can  assign  for  this  was  because  Sheppard 
should  look  young  and  should  not  exceed  the  height 
of  five  feet  four  or  five;  otherwise  it  is  amazing 
that  this  rough  blackguard  should  ever  have  been 
played  by  one  of  the  gentle  sex. 

Sheppard  was  a  desperate  hooligan,  who  would 
stick  at  nothing,  and  the  actor  should  possess  the 

243 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

qualification  of  a  light-weight  pugilist  with  the 
cunning  of  a  fox. 

It  is  true  that  Mrs.  Keeley  made  a  tremendous 
hit  in  the  part  at  the  Adelphi  in  1839,  and  so  much 
so  that  the  play  was  prohibited  after  a  very  long 
run,  owing  to  its  having  such  a  bad  influence  on 
the  morals  of  the  apprentices.  You  may  imagine 
our  surprise,  when  we  sent  the  play  to  the  Censor 
with  the  title  of  "  Jack  Sheppard,"  that  it  was 
licensed.  For  since  the  Keeley  days,  wherever  it 
has  been  played,  the  title  has  been  altered  to  "  Old 
London."  "  Jack  Sheppard  "  was  played  at  the 
Surrey  and  Victoria  theatres  by  the  late  E.  F. 
Saville. 

The  only  time  I  ever  saw  the  play  performed, 
it  was  my  misfortune  to  see  the  part  of  Jack  Shep- 
pard played  by  a  very  comely-looking  lady  of  about 
forty-five.  She  was  short  and  very  plump,  and 
seemed  to  experience  a  great  deal  of  difficulty  in 
climbing  down  from  an  upper  window  of  the  prison 
while  escaping;  in  fact,  I  am  sure  she  would  never 
have  accomplished  the  difficult  feat  but  for  the 
assistance  of  Blueskin  (who  ought  n't  to  have  been 
on  the  spot).  He  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  helped 
her  along  gracefully,  as  if  he  were  conducting  her 
to  her  brougham.  I  also  remember  when  the  sav- 
age Jonathan  Wild  called  Sheppard  a  liar,  the  in- 
dignant Jack  earned  the  honest  approval  of  the 
gallery  by  replying  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  "Jack 
Sheppard  was  a  thief,  but  he  never  told  a  lie!" 

Hatton  and  myself  agreed  that  we  did  n't  want 
any  of  that  sort  of  gruel  in  our  play.  It  must  be 
the  real  thing,  and  the  Jack  Sheppard  in  our  play 
244 


JACK   SHEPPARD  AND   HIGHWAYMEN 

was  to  be  the  Jack  Sheppard  of  real  life,  and  Shep- 
pard  must  be  depicted  as  he  was,  a  regular  type 
of  pale-faced  blackguard  and  thief  of  the  time  of 
Queen  Anne.  For  a  whole  year  I  instructed  Hat- 
ton  in  crime  and  criminals,  and  I  never  saw  a  man 
so  thoroughly  steeped  in  the  knowledge  of  it  as 
Joseph  Hatton  was,  and  eventually  what  he  did  n't 
know  of  Sheppard  and  those  famous  scoundrels, 
Jonathan  Wild  and  the  City  Marshal  of  that  time, 
was  n't  worth  knowing. 

It  did  n't  take  us  very  long  in  our  researches  to 
discover  that  the  noble-minded  highwayman  ex- 
isted only  in  Novels  and  Operas  of  the  style  of 
"  Captain  MacHeath."  They  were  most  of  them 
desperate  blackguards,  of  the  very  worst  class,  who 
rendered  the  outskirts  of  London  intolerable  and 
unsafe;  people  went  about  so  much  in  fear  of  their 
lives  that  at  certain  points  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Islington  and  Kennington  and  Knightsbridge  a  bell- 
man would  ring  a  bell  every  hour  or  two,  so  that 
a  number  of  people  going  home  north  or  south 
could  congregate  together  to  march  along  in  a 
party.  These  thieves  on  horseback  were  fine  riders, 
and  if  they  were  shot  at,  they  could  spur  the  horses 
all  over  the  road  and  make  the  chance  of  hitting 
them  most  difficult.  Numbers  of  them  were  de- 
cadent gentlemen  who  took  to  the  road  for  gain, 
instead  of  going  on  the  stage,  or  driving  and  selling 
motors,  as  they  do  nowadays. 

I  can  only  find  a  few  among  all  these  scoundrels 
who  were  at  all  heroic,  and  those  perhaps  were 
Captain  Hind,  Claud  Du  Val,  and  William  Nevison. 
The  last-mentioned  fought  for  the  English  in  Flan- 

245 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

ders  under  the  command  of  the  Duke  of  York  in 
1660,  and  proved  himself  a  brave  soldier,  but 
finally  deserted,  and  took  desperately  to  the  road 
again,  unable  to  resist  its  fascination,  and  while 
he  was  occasionally  polite  to  ladies  whom  he 
robbed,  he  shot  and  killed  several  men  who  tried 
to  arrest  him,  and  it  was  undoubtedly  Nevison  who 
accomplished  the  famous  ride  to  York,  and  not,  I 
am  sorry  to  say,  Dick  Turpin,  who  has  always 
been  credited  with  performing  this  equestrian  feat 
on  the  back  of  the  mythical  Black  Bess.  I  pos- 
sessed a  short  but  wonderful  account  of  the  life 
of  Turpin,  published  a  year  or  two  after  he  was 
hanged,  and  there  is  no  mention  of  the  ride  or  the 
horse.  I  'm  afraid  I  shall  earn  the  dislike  of  my 
youthful  readers  by  publicly  stating  this  fact,  and 
overthrowing  their  cherished  idol.  The  book 
printed  all  the  dreadful  language  that  Turpin 
uttered  during  his  robberies.  I  could  scarcely  keep 
it  in  MY  library,  so  I  made  a  present  of  it  to  George 
R.  Sims,  as  he  has  a  collection  of  criminal  litera- 
ture, being  a  great  student  of  criminology.  Cap- 
tain Hind  was  a  staunch  loyalist,  and  after  the 
death  of  Charles  I  he  conceived  an  inveterate 
hatred  for  the  Puritans,  and  had  the  great  pleasure 
of  stopping  Oliver  Cromwell,  who  was  riding  from 
Huntington  to  London.  Hind's  gang  attacked  the 
coach,  but  Oliver's  servants  were  too  numerous  for 
them;  one  of  the  highwaymen,  Allan,  was  arrested 
and  hanged,  but  Hind  escaped  by  the  skin  of  his 
teeth  on  one  of  Cromwell's  horses,  which  he  rode 
to  death.  Captain  Hind  fought  for  King  Charles 
II  at  Warrington  and  Worcester,  and  some  authori- 
246 


JACK  SHEPPARD  AND   HIGHWAYMEN 

ties  say  he  was  presented  to  the  king,  but  even  this 
honour  did  n't  save  him  from  being  hanged,  drawn, 
and  quartered  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-seven. 

After  Claud  Du  Val  was  arrested,  hundreds  of 
ladies  visited  him  in  his  cell,  and  presented  him 
with  bouquets  and  flowers,  and  made  as  great  a 
fuss  over  him  and  paid  him  all  the  attention  that 
they  would  nowadays  bestow  on  the  fashionable 
airman  of  the  moment.  Du  Val  was  buried 
under  the  aisle  of  Covent  Garden  Chapel,  and  so 
was  eventually  cremated  when  the  Chapel  was 
burnt. 

Volumes  might  be  written  on  these  three  notori- 
ous men  of  the  road,  Nevison,  Hind,  and  Du  Val, 
but  it  is  marvellous  how  Dick  Turpin  has  ever 
gained  such  extraordinary  publicity,  unless  it  be 
through  Harrison  Ainsworth's  "  Rookwood,"  for 
I  can  find  nothing  heroic  or  gallant  to  justify  this 
notoriety. 

Until  Turpin  pushed  himself  to  the  front,  and 
won  the  competition  for  brutality,  he  was  only  one 
of  a  gang — headed  by  Gregory,  the  so-called  "  Cap- 
tain "  Gregory  —  who  pursued  their  nefarious  busi- 
ness chiefly  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  North  of 
London,  and  were  a  terror  to  those  who  had  to 
traverse  the  North  Road,  or  who  lived  in  secluded 
farmhouses  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Canonbury, 
Highbury,  and  Hornsey.  There  were  no  railways, 
telegrams,  or  telephones  to  communicate  their  mis- 
deeds. These  men  were  generally  masked  and 
otherwise  disguised,  and  there  was  nothing  quicker 
than  the  horse  with  which  to  pursue  them,  and 
those  ridden  by  the  officers  of  the  law  were  similar 

247 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

to  our  modern  omnibus  horses,  so  these  armed 
riders  had  the  run  of  the  roads  almost  completely. 

They  did  n't,  as  we  read  in  novels,  gallop  in  front 
of  a  coach,  single-handed,  and  exclaim,  "Stand  and 
deliver!"  Not  at  all,  not  a  bit  like  it.  A  rope  was 
generally  drawn  across  the  road  at  some  extra  dark 
place  under  a  clump  of  trees,  and  when  the  coach 
reached  the  spot,  the  horses  stumbled  over  it  and 
a  gang  of  half  a  dozen,  some  on  horses  and  some 
on  foot,  fired  their  pistols,  killing  the  driver;  and 
Turpin,  when  head  of  the  gang,  would  thrust  a 
huge  horse  pistol  against  the  forehead  of  one  of 
the  occupants  of  the  coach  —  man  or  woman  it 
didn't  matter  which  —  and  shout  (I  am  quoting 
the  mildest  words  I  can  possibly  find  evidence  of), 

"  D n  your  blood  I    Your  money,  curse  you!" 

and  if  the  money  was  not  immediately  handed  over, 
a  head  was  battered  in.  This  was  the  noble  Turpin, 
generally  depicted  on  the  stage  in  a  blue  coat,  gold 
laced,  and  wearing  a  neatly  trimmed  moustache  with 
pointed  ends,  instead  of  the  hollow-cheeked  — 
more  or  less  clean-shaven  ruffian  —  with  long,  dirty, 
tangled  hair. 

One  of  the  methods  of  the  Gregory  gang,  with 
Turpin  in  command,  was  to  knock  at  the  door  of 
some  secluded  farmhouse  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
North  of  London,  and  on  its  being  opened  the  gang 
rushed  in,  taking  the  inhabitants  unawares,  batter- 
ing the  head  of  any  old  farmer  who  might  be  in 
the  way  with  the  butt  end  of  a  horse  pistol,  and 
dragging  the  women  about  by  the  hair  of  their 
heads  if  they  had  interfered,  and  if  a  kettle  of 
boiling  water  should  be  handy  at  the  time  it  was 
248 


JACK   SHEPPARD  AND   HIGHWAYMEN 

poured  over  them.  Sometimes,  not  wishing  to  hurt 
the  women  too  much,  and  wishing  to  treat  them 
leniently,  they  knocked  them  down  with  the  handle 
of  their  whips,  and  if  they  were  pretty,  had  no 
hesitation  in  kissing  them.  And  on  one  occasion 
Turpin  won  the  applause  of  the  gang,  and  proved 
himself  worthy  to  be  their  captain,  by  placing  an  old 
woman  on  the  fire,  and  holding  her  there  till  she 
confessed  that  her  life's  savings  were  hidden  under 
the  boards.  This  heroic  act  of  Turpin's  greatly 
amused  three  of  the  gang,  Wheeler,  Field,  and 
Gregory,  and  I  confess  I  was  not  displeased  to 
learn  they  were  arrested  a  year  later,  and  after 
the  cowards  had  all  given  evidence  against  each 
othei,  in  the  endeavour  to  save  their  wretched  necks, 
they  were  hung  in  chains  in  the  marshes  near 
Paistow  for  birds  to  peck  at. 

You  will  observe  that  the  houses  in  the  outskirts 
of  London,  built  in  the  early  part  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  have  small  look-out  holes  in  the  doors,  to 
enable  the  inmates  to  observe  before  opening  the 
door,  so  as  to  protect  themselves  against  these  in- 
vasions. There  are  many  doors  of  this  sort  remain- 
ing in  St.  John's  Wood. 

Turpin,  after  having  shot  his  companion  thief, 
King,  outside  the  Red  Lion  Inn,  in  Red  Lion 
Street,  Whitechapel,  whether  by  accident  or  other- 
wise it  is  difficult  to  decide,  though  I  think  I  must 
give  Turpin  the  credit  of  endeavouring  to  defend 
his  friend  from  being  arrested  by  the  officers  of  the 
Law,  and  one  of  them,  Bayes,  assured  King  when 
he  was  dying  that  Turpin  (who  had  fled)  intended 
the  bullet  for  him  —  Bayes  —  but  King  disbelieved 

249 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

Bayes,  and  with  curses  swore  that  Turpin  shot  him 
intentionally  from  selfish  motives,  desiring  to  dis- 
solve the  partnership  —  for  they  were  working  to- 
gether, the  Gregory  gang  being  scattered  —  and  take 
on  the  business  single-handed.  So  the  dying  Tom 
King  sought  revenge  and  informed  Bayes  and  the 
other  officers  where  they  could  find  Turpin.  "  You 
will  find  him,"  said  King  feebly,  "  at  the  White 
House  Tavern  at  Hackney  marshes,  but  take  you 
heed,  for  he  carries  three  brace  of  pistols  and  a 
carbine."  The  officers  went  to  the  White  House 
in  pursuit  of  Turpin,  but  the  latter  escaped,  as- 
sisted by  the  landlord  and  servant  in  the  house. 
He  was  too  good  a  customer  to  hand  over  to  justice, 
and  although  there  would  often  be  a  sheet  pasted 
up  at  these  inns  offering  a  handsome  reward,  they 
did  n't  want  to  kill  the  goose  with  the  golden  eggs, 
for  these  gentlemen  of  the  road,  when  they  had  had 
a  good  haul,  would  give  them  all  round  at  the  inns 
a  goodly  share  of  the  spoil.  Turpin  was  eventually 
arrested  at  Brough,  near  Market  Cave  in  York- 
shire, where  he  was  swaggering  as  a  country  gentle- 
man and  bragging  of  his  capacity  for  hunting  and 
shooting,  under  his  own  name  of  Palmer. 

The  young  sportsmen  at  Brough  observed  that 
he  was  well  armed,  for  his  pockets  were  filled  with 
small  pistols,  and  to  prove  to  these  gentlemen  that 
he  knew  how  to  use  them,  Turpin  killed  a  chicken 
on  a  wall  at  a  considerable  distance.  And  on  one 
of  the  young  men  remonstrating  with  him  for  hav- 
ing killed  the  landlord's  favourite  bird,  Turpin  re- 
plied, "  And  if  he  does  n't  keep  his  distance,  I  '11 
shoot  him  too! " 
250 


JACK  SHEPPARD  AND   HIGHWAYMEN 

After  he  was  lodged  in  jail  in  1739,  none  of  the 
authorities  knew  they  had  caged  the  famous  high- 
wayman, except  one  man  who  had  visited  the  cell 
who  was  ready  to  swear  it  was  none  other  than 
Dick  Turpin.  This  assertion  was  received  with 
roars  of  laughter,  but  the  young  man  f  ersisted  and 
declared  he  had  half  a  mind  to  wager  a  ten-pound 
note  that  the  prisoner  was  Turpin.  Turpin,  hear- 
ing this,  could  n't  resist  the  opportunity  and,  whis- 
pering to  him,  said,  "  Make  it  a  whole,  mind,  my 
lad,  and  I  '11  go  halves." 

After  his  trial  he  dressed  himself  in  his  best  to 
receive  the  numerous  ladies  who  called  on  him, 
and  would  sit  with  a  bouquet  pinned  in  his  coat, 
and  on  the  morning  he  was  hanged  he  assumed  a 
great  deal  of  bounce  and  swagger  and  made  a 
speech  to  the  enormous  crowd  who  had  come  to 
see  the  hanging;  after  speaking  for  over  half  an 
hour,  it  evidently  dawned  on  him  that  perhaps  it 
was  time  to  "  cut  the  cackle  and  come  to  the  'osses," 
so  he  threw  himself  from  the  ladder  and  expired  in 
five  minutes. 

I  pen  these  remarks  on  these  seventeenth 
and  eighteenth  century  criminals  only  as  a  brief 
reminder  to  the  readers  who  have  not  studied 
the  subject  that  there  is  very  little  romance  to 
be  discovered  about  these  "  gentlemen  of  the 
road." 

Jack  Sheppard,  as  I  have  said,  was  only  a  foot- 
pad, housebreaker,  and  was  chiefly  notorious  as  a 
prison  breaker,  and  Joseph  Hatton  drew  a  splen- 
did picture  of  him  and  his  surroundings,  with  the 
assistance  of  Bruce  Smith  for  the  scenery  and  Percy 

251 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

Macquoid  for  the  costumes —  the  first  work  of  this 
kind  he  ever  did  for  the  stage.  We  played  the 
piece  on  trial  at  the  Pavilion  Theatre,  Mile  End 
(then  called  the  Drury  Lane  of  the  East),  for  a 
month  in  April,  1898,  with  a  very  fine  produc- 
tion. There  were  sixteen  scenes,  and  crowds  of 
people  in  it,  also  horses  and  dogs,  prize-fighters, 
etc.,  the  chief  parts  being  played  by  my  wife  (May 
Palfrey)  as  Winifred  Wood,  Miss  V.  St.  Law- 
rence, Miss  de  Solla,  the  late  Charles  Groves  as 
Blueskin,  and  Julian  Cross  as  Jonathan  Wild  — 
two  very  fine  performances.  Although,  thank 
goodness,  I  am  pretty  active  even  now,  I  was 
very  active  thirteen  years  ago,  and  the  part  of 
Sheppard  required  it.  I  had  to  be  always  rushing 
about,  butting  people  in  the  waist  in  the  struggles, 
climbing  over  roofs  of  houses,  or  jumping  from 
chimney-stacks  and  through  windows.  It  was  a 
thorough  success,  and  the  reason  it  was  never  played 
in  the  West  End  was  owing  to  the  great  difficulty  in 
finding  a  theatre  with  a  large  stage.  There  were 
only  five  or  six  altogether  at  that  time,  and  twice 
when  we  had  the  opportunity  of  acquiring  the 
theatre,  we  had  not  sufficient  capital  to  take  it,  and 
when  we  had  the  capital  we  could  n't  get  the 
theatre.  At  one  time  it  was  going  to  be  financed 
by  a  clergyman  and  a  "  noble  Marquis  of  sporting 
fame,"  at  another  by  the  late  George  Singer  of 
Coventry.  At  last,  as  time  went  on,  I  realized  I 
was  not  young  enough  any  longer  to  play  the  youth- 
ful vagabond  of  two  and  twenty,  so  the  play  has 
been  shelved,  so  far  as  I  am  personally  concerned, 
though  I  hope  to  see  it  staged  in  the  West  End. 
252 


WEEUON    GROSSMITH    AS   JACK    SIIKI'I'AKI' 


JACK  SHEPPARD  AND   HIGHWAYMEN 

Alas!  I  consider  I  gave  almost  two  years  of  my  life 
to  that  play,  and  could  n't  count  the  number  of  cases 
of  champagne  that  were  consumed  at  my  old  house 
at  Canonbury  during  the  very  many  pleasant  din- 
ners and  lunches  there  while  we  were  discussing 
"  crime  "  in  connection  with  "  Jack  Sheppard."  I 
am  sure  I  never  entered  into  anything  so  earnestly 
and  ambitiously  as  I  did  into  that  play,  and  I  con- 
fess I  was  heartily  disappointed  that  we  never 
played  it  for  a  big  run.  The  late  John  Coleman 
told  me  that  in  his  opinion  "  I  should  never  require 
another  play,"  he  thought  it  would  go  on  inter- 
minably in  the  provinces. 

The  late  Sir  Henry  Irving  came  to  the  Pavilion 
on  the  first  night  of  the  production  and  the  late 
J.  L.  Toole  on  the  last  night. 

The  late  Isaac  Cohen  helped  to  produce  it  at  the 
Pavilion  Theatre,  of  which  he  was  manager.  He 
was  a  popular  man,  known  to  everyone  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood and  very  much  liked,  and  on  one  occasion 
in  some  crowded  place — the  Savoy  of  the  East — he 
suddenly  discovered  that  his  watch  had  been  stolen, 
but  did  n't  know  exactly  when  or  where  it  disap- 
peared. So  he  told  the  "  galleryites  "  at  the  Pavilion 
of  his  misfortune.  They  seemed  awfully  annoyed 
and  sympathetic  about  it,  and  all,  talking  at  once, 
shouted,  "  It  was  n't  us,  sir.  We  know  nothing 
about  it."  One  individual,  who  seemed  most  con- 
cerned, said,  "  It  could  n't  be  Smith's  or  Worten's 
gang  because  they  was  up  West,  looking  after  the 
toffs — it  being  Opera  time."  Another  shouted,  "  Ex- 
cuse me,  Mr.  Cohen,  you  was  in  the  '  Free '  on  Sat- 
urday, was  n't  you?    You  was?    Well,  then,  I  know 

253 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

who  had  it.  It  was  those  '  country  '  boys  from  Bow. 
You  shall  get  your  watch  back  all  right,  sir,  don't 
you  fear.    All  right,  Guv'nor." 

It  was  a  presentation  watch  that  Mr.  Cohen 
highly  valued,  and,  sure  enough,  it  was  returned  to 
him  a  few  days  later  'without  comment. 

I  asked  Mr.  Cohen  what  sort  of  business  he 
thought  we  should  do  on  the  Easter  Monday.  "  It 
entirely  depends,"  he  replied,  "  on  how  they  come." 

"  Naturally,"  I  answered,  "  whether  they  come 
in  large  numbers  or  small." 

"  That 's  not  it  at  all,"  he  said.  "  The  point  with 
us  is  whether  we  have  any  luck.  It 's  whether  they 
come  '  thick '  or  '  thin,'  "  the  meaning  of  which  I 
could  n't  grasp.  He  then  explained  that  they  had 
room  for  considerably  over  a  thousand,  for  stand- 
ing accommodation,  and  whether  the  majority  who 
came  were  fat  or  lean  made  a  considerable  differ- 
ence to  the  receipts.  I  was  very  gratified  at  the 
end  of  the  performance  on  Easter  Monday  when 
Isaac  Cohen  approached  me,  looking  very  cheery, 
and  rubbing  his  hands,  as  he  exclaimed,  "It's  all 
right,  my  boy,  they  came  thin."  The  house  was 
crowded.  It  was  an  experience  never  to  be  for- 
gotten. I  really  believe  every  thief  in  London  saw 
that  play! 


254 


CHAPTER   XX 

The  Cockney  Sportsman.    Shooting  Stories 

HI,  hi,  cute,  cute,  karr-hay  larr-hay, 
bro-o-ouh!  in  the  distance.  Nearer 
is  the  voice  of  the  human,  the  beater 
in  the  thick  of  a  fern  brake  and  leafy 
copse.  Hi,  hi,  hi!  Look  out!  Over!  Ping! 
Ping!    Hareforrard!    O-ver-r!    Mar-r-k  —  Cock! 

Ping !  Ping !  sounds  from  your  twelve  bore.    D n 

it,  missed  again!  A  gun  pushes  through  the 
bushes.  Is  it  down?  I  don't  think  so.  But  you 
fired?  Oh,  yes,  I  fired,  both  barrels.  What?  Yes! 
No!  Of  course  it 's  my  own  gun.  There  's  nothing 
the  matter  with  the  Old  Gun.  Eley  chose  it  for  me 
and  he  knows  something  about  a  gun.  Yes,  yes, 
it  comes  up  all  right  at  the  shoulder.  No,  the 
stock  is  n't  too  long.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Yes,  the 
powder 's  all  right,  E.  C,  I  use  no  other.  Yes  — 
six  shot  —  wish  it  had  been  eight  or  ten.  It  might 
have  touched  some  part  of  the  blooming  bird. 
Never  mind,  the  bird  's  happy!  It  was  n't  the  fault 
of  the  gun  or  the  powder.  I  fired  under  the  beg- 
gar. I  generally  do,  when  I  don't  fire  over  or  too 
much  ahead! 

This  does  n't  read  like  a  fashionable  shoot,  when 
at  the  end  of  a  few  days  you  are  handed  a  card 
with  your  name  printed  on  it,  chronicling  the  enor- 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

mous  slaughter  of  a  thousand  and  fifty  partridges, 
fifteen  hundred  brace  of  pheasants,  fifty  hares,  etc., 
at  the  MacDoogles'  in  the  company  of  such  famous 
shots  as  the  Duke  of  Roteland,  Earl  de  Black,  Lord 
de  Clifton,  Lord  Wallingford,  the  Marquis  of 
Ripping,  and  so  on. 

My  little  experience  has  generally  been  that  of 
walking  up  the  birds  in  a  few  hundred  acres  in 
Surrey  or  Essex,  on  a  delightful  cool  day  in  Octo- 
ber, when  you  may  fire  at  everything  —  though 
you  have  possibly  done  this  in  September  —  in  the 
company  of  three  or  four  jolly  companions  out  for 
fun  as  well  as  sport.  The  man  who  can't  shoot 
is  generally  far  more  amusing  than  the  man  who 
can,  and  frequently  more  dangerous,  which  con- 
siderably adds  to  the  pleasure  and  excitement  of 
the  sport,  for  as  the  game  is  not  armed  and  cannot 
return  the  fire,  there  is  in  most  cases  an  entire 
absence  of  any  element  of  danger  —  and  surely  all 
sport  should  have  some  risk.  Hunting,  yachting, 
flying,  football  are  all  fine  sports,  entailing  a  great 
deal  of  danger  to  life,  but  shooting,  unless  you  go 
with  the  untrained  Cockney  sportsman,  falls  short 
considerably  in  excitement  when  compared  to  these 
other  noble  sports. 

But  the  man  who  fires  through  hedges,  or  across 
you  at  a  bird  going  right  or  left,  always  causes 
one  excitement,  sometimes  accompanied  with  tem- 
porary deafness.  When  walking  up  birds  and 
placed  left  gun,  I  have  frequently  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  examining  the  interior  of  my  right-hand 
neighbour's  barrels  when  carried  at  a  right  angle 
over  the  left  arm,  much  in  the  manner  Rudolph 
256 


THE   COCKNEY   SPORTSMAN 

holds  it  when  singing  in  the  opera  of  "  Der  Frei- 
schiitz."  On  the  stage  the  cartridges  are  blank,  but 
when  you  know  there  is  an  ounce  of  lead  and  a  full 
complement  of  powder  in  front  of  a  hair-trigger, 
it  delights  the  fearless  sportsman  because  the  slight- 
est pressure  of  the  finger  on  the  trigger  would  give 
you  every  possible  chance  of  being  shot,  thereby 
increasing  the  danger  of  your  day's  sport,  and 
when  you  are  smoking  your  cigar  in  the  evening 
you  can  always  amuse  your  hearers  by  relating 
your  narrow  escape. 

When  I  used  to  shoot  with  my  old  friend  Dobree 
in  the  early  eighties,  there  was  never  any  lack  of 
excitement  I  have  known  my  host  hand  his  gun 
to  one,  barrels  forward  and  hammers  at  full  cock, 
when  scrambling  over  a  hedge.  Also  he  had  a 
curious  habit  of  catching  his  foot  in  the  stubble 
and  coming  a  fearful  cropper,  sometimes  both 
cartridges  exploding  as  he  fell.  Sometimes,  when 
the  strain  was  becoming  too  intense  for  me,  I  have 
hung  back  a  bit,  but  this  plan  of  action  did 
not  always  succeed,  for  Dobree  would  turn  and 
face  me,  giving  drastic  orders,  in  his  deliberate 
way  of  speaking,  to  "  Keep-the-line  "  —  he  was 
always  short  of  breath.  I  remember  only  too  well  on 
one  occasion,  he  corrected  me  with  some  severity,  as 
he  swung  round,  saying,  "  This-is-most-dangerous- 
not-keeping-the-line-someone-will-be-shot,"  and  as 
he  was  speaking  he  slipped  and  fell  in  a  sitting 
position  in  the  swedes,  both  barrels  exploding. 

Getting  a  little  weary  of  the  excitement,  I  said, 
"  Take  care,  sir!  " 

11  That 's  disgraceful,"  Dobree  answered.  "  That 

257 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

man -Thompson -ought- to- be- ashamed -of -himself. 
Yesterday- 1 -gave  -him-distinct-  orders  -  to-put-nails- 
in-my-boots- and -he -has- omitted -to -have -it-done." 
And  with  an  angelic  smile  on  his  face,  said, "  My  dear 
Grossmith,  I  might-have-shot-you-dead.  I-have-no- 
firm-hold-with-these-boots-on-this-slippery-stuff." 

"That's  all  right,  sir,"  his  nephew  replied, 
"  better  luck  next  time,"  at  the  same  moment  help- 
ing his  uncle  to  his  feet.  And  on  we  proceeded 
again  more  or  less  —  generally  less  —  "  keeping  the 
line,"  a  long  walk  with  nothing  happening,  Dobree 
talking  loudly  while  telling  us  "  to  keep  quiet,"  and 
putting  up  a  landrail  which  no  one  got,  waiting  for 
our  host  to  shoot,  as  it  rose  close  to  his  feet.  Another 
field  was  worked  when  a  stray  partridge  rose  close 
to  Mr.  Dobree,  who  slowly  jerked  his  gun  in  the 
old  style  (as  they  did  in  the  flintlock  days,  when 
they  say  a  sportsman  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  before 
presenting),  and  when  the  bird  passed  us,  Dobree 
still  aiming,  the  bird  being  about  sixty  yards  off, 
the  nephew  swung  up  his  gun  and  pulled  down  the 
bird.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  consternation. 
"  Who-fired? "  said  our  host  very  indignantly, 
"Who-fi-red?"  No  one  answered.  "Who-fired?" 
repeated  our  host.  "  This-is-a-most-ungentlemanly- 
act.  You-did  n't-fire,  Grossmith?  You-could  n't- 
do-such-a-thing.  I-knew-your-father-I've-heard- 
him-lecture-several- times- and -he- has- taken -Mrs- 
Dobree  down  to-supper.  His-son-could  n't-behave 
like  that." 
"  No,"  I  replied,  "  I  did  n't  shoot,  sirl  " 
"  It  could  n't  be-number-two  —  he-could  n't-have 
been -guilty  —  his-grandfather-was-in-the-Crimea." 
258 


THE   COCKNEY   SPORTSMAN 

"No,  no,"  shouted  the  nephew,  "I  shot,  sir!  I 
thought  you  were  n't  going  to  fire  at  eighty  yards,  so 
I  tried  a  bit  with  the  left,  which  being  well  choked 
brought  the  beggar  down." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  disgust  of  my  dear  old 
host,  and  much  as  it  amused  me  then,  and  does  now, 
I  daresay  at  my  present  age  I  might  have  felt 
equally  annoyed. 

"  You-had-no-right-to-fire,  it-was-my-bird,"  he 
said. 

The  nephew  replied,  "  Sorry,  sir,  I  thought  it 
had  gone  too  far  for  you." 

"  That  's-a-most-impertinent-remark.  You-don't- 
know-what-you-are-talking-  about.  I  -  have  -  killed- 
birds-with-my-left-at-a-hundred-and-fifty-yards  — 
ask  Major  Fergusson  who-stays-here  —  he-will-tell- 
you-that-I-have-killed-my-  bird  -when  -  it-  has  -  been  - 
scarcely-  visible-and-have-accomplished-a-right-and 
-left-at-eighty,  and  a  hundred  yards  —  and  have 
almost  got-my-third.  This  gun-is-one-of-the-finest- 
guns-Purdy-ever-made,-he-said-so-himself.  There  's 
no-knowing- what- it-can-do  .  .  .  if-you-are-firing- 
straight.  I  excuse  -your-  apparent-  ungentlemanly 
conduct-because-you-evidently-are-not-acquainted- 
with-the-etiquette-of-the-stubble." 

One  lovely  day  in  September  I  was  shooting  at 
Hatfield  Broad  Oak  in  Essex  with  my  old  friend 
John  Hyde  (-the  Sardine  King),  not  unknown  at 
the  Badminton  Club  and  at  Deal,  in  company  with 
Richard  Free,  who  a  few  years  ago  nearly  made 
Harwich  the  chief  harbour  in  England,  only  it 
did  n't  come  off  then,  but  I  believe  it  will.  The 
Great  Eastern  Hotel,  just  re-opened  there,  is  the 

259 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

finest  hotel  in  Essex.  We  had  had  a  very  fair  day's 
sport,  and  Free  and  myself  were  waiting  on  a  bit 
of  high  ground  while  the  other  guns  were  walking 
up  the  other  side  of  a  hedge  with  a  couple  of  ancient 
beaters  in  smock  frocks. 

"  Now  take  care,  Grossmith,"  said  Free,  "  one 
can't  be  too  careful  —  better  miss  a  rabbit  than 
wound  a  man.  The  rabbit  is  worth  sixpence,  but 
a  man's  legs  can't  be  replaced  with  comfort,  and 
no  money  can  compensate  for  the  loss  of  a 
limb." 

I  rather  wearily  replied,  "  Quite  so,"  and  was 
standing  with  my  gun  over  my  shoulder,  listening  to 
the  quaint  and  weird  sound  of  the  wind  whistling 
down  the  barrels.  Free  continued  with  his  advice, 
"  Now,  Grossmith,  these  men  Hyde  and  Jennings 
are  coming  up  the  hill  the  other  side  of  the  hedge 
with  the  beaters,  so,  if  anything  rises,  for  God's 
sake  don't  fire  near  the  hedge.  We  don't  want  to  kill 
people." 

"  Quite  so,"  I  replied,  "  it 's  not  a  battle." 

"  I  'm  only  telling  you,"  continued  Free,  "  because 
one  can't  be  too  careful.  I  've  known  the  best  of 
shots  lose  their  heads  at  times,  and  indeed — "  Karra 
hay!  Carrahai!  Carahail  Ping!  Pong!  Pack! 
A  pheasant  had  risen  and  flew  over  the  hedge  as 
my  host  fired.  A  dead  silence  followed.  Then 
Free  shouted,  "  Is  it  down?"  and  with  a  chuckle 
said,  "  It 's  as  dead  as  a  door-nail."  No  reply. 
Then  we  heard  the  guns  and  keepers  advance,  and 
slight  murmuring.  "  Have  you  got  it?  "  Free  re- 
peated, "  have  you  got  it?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  replied  an  old  beater  in  a  smock 
260 


■;! 


THE   COCKNEY    SPORTSMAN 

frock  who  was  wiping  his  face  with  his  hand,  which 
was  besmeared  with  blood,  "  Oh  yes,  I  got  it, 
through  the  nose!  " 

Sure  enough,  several  pellets  had  passed  through 
his  nose. 

Free  looked  at  me  and  said,  "  Grossmith,  did  you 
fire?" 

"No!"  I  replied.  "You  know  I  did  not,  but 
I  think  I  know  who  did ! " 

"  Who  fired?  "  shouted  Hyde. 

"  Never  mind  who  fired,"  replied  Free  with  some 
irritability.  "  The  man  has  been  shot  —  it  matters 
little  who  shot  him!  It's  an  accident  —  it  wasn't 
done  on  purpose!  !  !  " 

"  I  'm  sure  of  that,"  said  Hyde,  "  but  —  " 

"Well  then,  d n  it,"  retorted  Free,  "what 

the  devil  does  it  matter  who  fired?  Why  make  a 
mountain  out  of  a  molehill?  "  and  dragging  me  into 
the  discussion,  said,  "  Neither  Grossmith  nor  my- 
self is  here  to  shoot  our  fellow-creatures,  we  are 
here  to  shoot  birds!  And  it's  always  customary  in 
this  part  of  Essex  when  any  beater  is  shot,  to  whip 
up  five  shillings  apiece  from  the  guns!"  He  then 
took  off  his  cap  and  went  round  to  us  and  made  a 
collection  for  the  beater.  And  as  it  was  a  custom  — 
I  heard  afterwards  a  pretty  frequent  one!  —  I 
handed  out  my  five  shillings  with  pleasure.  And 
the  beater  told  us  in  the  evening  on  our  inquiring 
how  he  felt  that  he  was  never  better  and  he  wished 
it  would  happen  every  day. 

I  am  bound  to  say  in  my  shooting  experience  I 
have  had  plenty  of  excitement.    I  don't  shoot  now. 

261 


CHAPTER   XXI 

"  Young  Mr.  Yarde."  "  The  Lady  of  Ostend." 
A  Cider  Evening  at  the  Beefsteak  Club. 
The  Relief  of  Mafeking.  Relief  of 
Ladysmith 

IN  the  early  autumn  of  '98  I  produced  a  play  in 
the  Provinces  in  conjunction  with  my  brother 
"  Gee-Gee,"  called  "  Young  Mr.  Yarde,"  by 
Paul  Rubens  and  the  late  Harold  Ellis,  their 
first  effort  in  dramatic  work.  We  did  good  business 
in  the  Provinces  and  afterwards  opened  at  the  Roy- 
alty Theatre,  London,  in  November,  but  very  few 
people  came,  and  I  "put  up  the  shutters  again"  after 
a  few  weeks  and  shortly  afterwards  played  at  the 
Criterion  in  "  My  Soldier  Boy,"  written  by  Alfred 
Maltby  and  financed  by  a  Mr.  Spiers,  who  played 
the  chief  part.  It  was  almost  a  success,  but  not  quite. 
Miss  Ellis  Jeffreys  played  in  it,  also  Mr.  Maltby, 
and  Miss  Jenny  MacNutty.  In  the  same  year  I 
produced  "The  Lady  of  Ostend."  The  original 
version  of  this  play  was  written  by  Oscar  Blumen- 
thal  and  Gustav  Kadelburgh,  the  adaptation  by  Sir 
Francis  Burnand.  It  was  produced  in  July  in 
intensely  hot  weather.  We  ran  for  a  few  weeks, 
then  closed,  and  reopened  in  the  autumn,  when  the 
late  Scott  Buist  joined  me,  but  we  did  n't  last  long. 
But  it  made  a  great  success  in  the  Provinces.  Mr. 
Lawrence  Brough,  who  had  the  pluck  to  acquire 
262 


"YOUNG    MR.    YARDE" 

the  rights  of  "  The  Lady  of  Ostend,"  ran  it  success- 
fully for  quite  seven  years. 

About  this  time  I  had  just  moved  into  a  house 
at  Tavistock  Square,  from  my  old  house  at  Canon- 
bury,  and  a  spell  of  bad  luck  set  in.  During  my 
residence  there  of  a  year  and  a  half  nothing  but 
financial  ill  luck  attended  me.  The  terrible  Boer 
War  was  raging  at  its  height,  placing  hundreds  of 
the  theatre-going  public  into  mourning,  and  I  don't 
believe  I  made  any  income  from  acting  that  year, 
and  indeed  had  serious  thoughts  of  going  back  to 
my  former  profession,  of  painting. 

During  the  run  of  "  The  Lady  of  Ostend,"  one 
evening  after  the  performance,  feeling  a  little  de- 
pressed at  the  bad  business,  I  strolled  into  the 
Beefsteak  Club,  hoping  that  I  should  meet  some 
jovial  companions  at  that  delightful  one-room  club 
who  would  cheer  me  up.  I  was  not  disappointed. 
On  entering  I  heard  loud  laughter  from  a  merry 
set  of  about  a  dozen  "  bloods,"  including  Sir  George 
Chetwynd  (who  always  reminds  me  of  the  typical 
Corinthian  Tom,  the  hero  of  Pierce  Egan's  book 
"  Tom  and  Jerry,"  the  famous  book  which  took 
the  town  by  storm  in  1820  and  was  dedicated  to 
King  George  IV),  Waldo  Storey,  the  Sculptor, 
Leslie  Ward  ("  Spy"  of  Vanity  Fair) ,  Freddie  Post, 
John  Drew  (the  popular  American  actor),  were  all 
assembled  and  in  the  best  spirits.  If  I  felt  de- 
pressed, that  feeling  soon  vanished  in  such  cheerful 
company.  Sir  George  pushed  me  into  a  chair  at 
the  top  of  the  table,  and  requested  me  to  be  "  merry 
and  wise,"  at  the  same  time  chanting  the  chorus  of 
a  famous  old  song  of  the  past  —  sung  by  either  Ley- 
bourne  or  the  Lion  Comique  —  the  great  Vance. 

263 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

I  obeyed  and  joined  in  the  chorus. 

Waldo  Storey  ordered  "Charles"  (the  name 
generally  given  to  the  head  waiter  there)  to  fill 
my  glass.  Charles  replied,  "  Mr.  Grossmith  has 
already  ordered  a  whiskey  and  soda." 

"  Pour  it  down  the  sink,"  he  replied. 

I  said,  "  I  don't  care  for  champagne,  thank  you." 

"  Of  course  you  don't,"  said  Sir  George,  "  and 
wait  till  you  're  asked." 

"  I  have  been,"  I  replied  modestly. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Storey.  "  We  've  asked 
you  to  have  some  cider.  That's  the  stuff  to  drink 
this  hot  weather." 

"  I  don't  like  cider,"  I  said.  "  You  are  surely  not 
drinking  cider?  Waldo  always  drinks  cham- 
pagne." 

"Never  in  the  hot  weather,"  said  Sir  George. 
"It's  poison,  and  whiskey  is  worse.  Don't  be 
prejudiced.  It's  Devonshire  cider  sent  up  by  the 
General  (Sir  Henry  de  Bathe),  and  if  it's  good 
enough  for  Drew  and  Leslie,  Waldo,  myself,  and 

the  General,  d n  it,  it 's  good  enough  for  you," 

and  out  of  a  glass  jug  he  half  filled  a  tumbler,  which 
he  handed  me. 

"  And,"  Drew  added,  "  if  you  just  add  a  little 
drop  of  brandy  to  it,  it  will  take  off  the  acidity,  and 
you  won't  know  it  from  champagne." 

What  they  told  me  was  cider  was  the  finest  cham- 
pagne we  had  in  the  club,  Pommery  and  Greno,  fif- 
teen years  old,  and  they  had  had  it  decanted  in  a  jug. 

I  have  heard  of  people  shutting  their  eyes  and  not 
being  able  to  detect  sherry  from  port,  so  perhaps 
it  was  excusable  that  I  was  not  suspicious  when  I 
264 


A   CIDER   EVENING 

was  assured  that  the  drink  they  had  offered  me  was 
cider,  and  on  being  asked  my  opinion  of  the 
"cider,"  after  taking  several  sips  and  eventually 
finishing  the  glass  with  a  slight  shudder,  I  said,  very 
deliberately,  "  I  'm  bound  to  confess  it  is  not  half 
bad,  anyway,  it  is  not  so  offensive  as  I  thought  it 
would  be." 

They  all  laughed.  My  glass  was  refilled,  and  I 
again  added  a  little  brandy  to  counteract  "  the 
metallic  taste!  ! " 

"It's  quite  as  good  as  champagne,  isn't  it?" 
said  Sir  George. 

"  I  won't  go  as  far  as  that"  I  replied,  " but  on  a 
hot  night  and  when  one  is  thirsty,  it's  better  than 
nothing  at  all." 

"  Here,  here,"  said  Leslie,  helping  himself  and  giv- 
ing me  some  more  cider,  and  glasses  were  all  filled 
again,  and  another  jug  brought  in,  and  Drew  said, 
personally  he  never  wished  to  taste  anything  better. 

I  said,  "  I  'm  sorry  I  can't  agree  with  you,  for 
after  all,  though  it  may  be  the  best  concoction  of 
its  kind,  it's  very  much  like  a  bottle  of  Royal  Im- 
perial champagne  at  four  and  sixpence.  In  fact, 
it  is  the  class  of  brand  one  might  possibly  en- 
counter at  a  cheap  subscription  dance  at  Mitcham 
or  Clapham." 

I  never  heard  so  much  laughter  in  the  Club,  it 
was  one  big  roar  in  which  the  waiters  found  it 
difficult  to  refrain  from  joining. 

But  I  continued,  "  One  must  n't  look  a  gift  horse 
in  the  mouth,  and  I  '11  take  a  little  to  show  there  is 
no  ill  feeling." 

Pommery  at  fifteen  shillings  and  sixpence  a  bot- 

265 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

tie  at  club  price,  being  classified  at  four  and  six- 
penny "gooseberry!"  It  was  a  merry  evening,  or 
rather,  morning. 

As  he  left  the  Club,  Leslie  Ward  caught  his  foot 
in  the  fender  and  then  cannoned  off  the  screen. 
Waldo  said,  "That's  the  worst  of  cider." 

/  left  the  Club  quietly  and  with  great  dignity, 
and  thought  it  strange  when  one  of  the  waiters  told 
me  to  "  mind  the  stairs."  I  knew  the  stairs  were 
there,  they  had  always  been  there  since  the  Club  was 
built  —  why  remind  one?  I  suppose  it  was  neces- 
sary, for  shortly  after  I  left,  one  of  the  other  mem- 
bers had  evidently  mistaken  fourteen  steps  for  one!  ! 

There  was  considerable  amusement  among  the 
members  of  the  Beefsteak  Club  because  I  did  not 
play  the  next  day  at  the  matinee,  and  boards  an- 
nounced "  Re-appearance  of  Mr.  Weedon  Gross- 
mith  to-night." 

But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  though  I  certainly  admit 
I  felt  "  cheap  "  the  next  morning,  I  should  have 
played  as  usual,  but  on  inquiry  from  my  manager 
what  sort  of  house  we  were  likely  to  play  to,  and 
on  hearing  his  reply  that  the  exceptionally  hot 
weather  —  it  was  about  88  degrees  in  the  shade,  — 
had  killed  the  booking  and  we  should  probably 
only  play  to  ten  pounds,  I  preferred  to  give  the 
understudy  a  chance  —  they  get  so  few  —  which  I 
did,  but  quite  forgot  at  the  time  that  he  had  never 
rehearsed  the  breaking  up  scene  towards  the  end 
of  the  play  with  all  the  accessories.  I  may  mention 
that  in  the  third  act  of  "The  Lady  of  Ostend  " 
a  prize-fighter  suspects  "Wortles,"  the  hero,  of 
having  an  intrigue  with  his  fiancee  or  wife,  and 
266 


"THE   LADY   OF   OSTEND " 

completely  breaks  up  the  happy  home.  The  china 
alone  broken  on  these  occasions,  the  very  cheapest 
damaged  stuff  we  could  get,  cost  us  fifteen  pounds 
a  week;  there  were  chairs  that  gave  way  in  the 
legs,  and  a  couch  that  was  smashed  flat,  and  the 
hero  having  crawled  under  the  table  for  protection, 
the  prize-fighter  smashed  it  with  the  fender  and  it 
broke  to  pieces.  This  was  all  very  well  and  per- 
fectly safe  if  you  knew  where  to  go,  and  when.  The 
table  was  a  work  of  art,  for  as  it  gave  way  in  the 
centre  one  was  protected  by  two  heavy  supports 
coming  out  on  either  side,  but  the  poor  understudy 
was  n't  aware  of  all  these  complications,  not  having 
rehearsed  with  the  properties,  and  had  a  dreadful 
time;  my  dresser  said  the  play  never  went  better 
and  the  "  breaking  up  scene  "  was  the  most  realistic 
thing  he  had  ever  seen  on  the  stage!  !  I  paid  the 
understudy's  doctor's  fees. 

It  requires  something  very  attractive  to  face  a 
temperature  of  90  degrees  in  the  shade,  so  I  "  put  up 
the  shutters"  the  following  week,  though  we  re- 
vived the  play  in  the  autumn  for  a  couple  of 
months.  It  has,  as  I  said,  since  been  touring  the 
Provinces  for  seven  or  eight  consecutive  years,  so 
it's  a  case  of  "One  never  can  tell." 

We  revived  "  The  Pantomime  Rehearsal "  in  con- 
junction with  Martin  Harvey  at  the  Prince  of  Wales 
Theatre,  January,  1903,  Martin  Harvey  playing  in 
"  Ibb  and  little  Christina"  and  another  play  as  well, 
with  his  wife,  Miss  de  Silva,  in  it. 

I  fear  we  were  not  very  successful. 

I  shall  never  forget  one  memorable  night.  I  was 
about  to  make  my  entrance  at  ten  o'clock,  when  I 

267 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

heard  such  shouting  as  I  had  never  in  my  life  heard 
before,  people  were  rushing  about  the  streets  and 
screaming  as  if  the  town  were  on  fire.  The  news 
had  got  about  that  Mafeking  was  relieved!  !  ! 
after  General  Sir  Baden  Powell  had  been  shut  up 
there  for  a  year. 

I  "  gagged  "  my  entrance  by  saying,  "  I  'm  sorry 
I  'm  late,  but  I  Ve  just  heard  the  best  bit  of  news 
we  have  had  for  over  three  hundred  days! " 

There  was  a  sudden  silence,  then  a  round  of 
applause,  but  the  audience  were  not  quite  certain 
till  Brandon  Thomas  exclaimed,  "  I  say,  Arthur, 
there  are  a  lot  of  funny  things  going  on  in  the 
streets!  "  Then  the  audience  shouted  and  hoorayed, 
and  many  left,  in  fact  we  had  to  hurry  over  the  per- 
formance as  quickly  as  we  could,  the  row  in  the 
streets  made  it  almost  impossible  to  act.  The  people 
seemed  to  have  gone  mad,  they  were  blowing 
trumpets  and  ringing  bells  and  waving  flags  and 
shouting  war  songs  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  and 
when  we  left  the  theatre  we  found  people  too  ex- 
cited to  ride  inside  cabs,  but  were  standing  or  sitting 
on  the  top  of  them. 

Brandon  Thomas  and  myself  were  going  to 
supper  somewhere  at  Chelsea  to  meet  Whistler  and 
some  other  painters,  and  found  ourselves  standing 
more  or  less  on  the  footboard  of  the  hansom  cab, 
blowing  trumpets  as  we  drove  through  the  crowded 
streets. 

The  same  sort  of  demonstration  took  place  shortly 
afterwards  on  "  Ladysmith "  night,  and  another 
incident  in  connection  with  the  Boer  War  I  shall 
never  forget  was  when  Sir  Redvers  Buller  returned 
268 


WEEDON    CROSSMITH    AM)    WOODC'OTE    PRINCE 


GENERAL   SIR  REDVERS   BULLER 

to  England,  the  welcome  he  received  on  entering 
the  Beefsteak  Club,  of  which  he  was  such  a  popular 
member,  was  overwhelming.  (I  presented  him 
with  one  of  the  match-boxes  with  his  head  on  the 
front  which  were  being  sold  for  a  shilling.) 

A  time  of  very  bad  theatrical  business  was  experi- 
enced during  this  period  of  the  war  in  South  Africa, 
and  I  seemed  to  feel  the  full  force  of  the  wave  of 
bad  luck.  Perhaps  it  was  that  the  public  were  too 
anxious  and  too  nervous  to  go  as  much  as  usual  to 
plays,  and  in  addition  had  not  so  much  money  as 
usual  to  spend  on  amusements,  but,  whatever  the 
cause,  the  effect  was  a  decided  slump  in  Farce  and 
Comedy,  and  as  no  one  ever  seems  to  want  to  see  me 
in  serious  parts,  I  had  to  grin  and  bear  a  long  spell 
of  enforced  idleness,  to  which  the  term  "  resting  " 
is  so  often  misapplied. 

When  one  is  earning  nothing,  one's  expenses  seem 
to  increase  rather  than  lessen,  no  matter  how  eco- 
nomical one  may  endeavour  to  be.  This  was  my  ex- 
perience at  that  time,  which  reminds  me  of  a  little 
incident  which  seemed  then  to  be  another  blow 
from  the  hand  of  Fate.  One  morning  my  wife, 
when  reading  the  papers,  called  out  to  me:  "All 
the  scenery  stored  in  the  Midland  Railway  arches 
was  destroyed  last  night  in  a  big  conflagration." 

"  Weedon,"  she  said,  "  surely  all  the  Jack 
Sheppard  scenery  is  there!"  My  heart  gave  a 
bound  —  it  was,  and  I  was  paying  the  storage  bill 
and  insurances  for  the  value  of  £1000,  I  had  been 
doing  so  for  some  years. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  I  said  excitedly,  "  we  must  n't 
let  ourselves  be  carried  away  and  jump  at  this  good 

269 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

news  too  quickly,  let 's  be  sure.  Is  it  the  old  or  the 
new  building  which  is  burnt?  " 

"  The  old  wing  was  completely  gutted,"  answered 
my  wife,  reading  from  the  newspaper. 

"Ah,  what  luck!"  said  I.  I  particularly  re- 
quested the  Midland  Company  to  store  our  things 
in  the  new  wing,  so  as  to  be  free  from  damp,  but 
they  were  so  crowded  up,  and  we  had  so  much  to 
store,  that  it  was  found  impossible  to  comply  with 
my  request,  and  I  had  received  a  letter  from  the 
officials  of  the  company,  informing  me  of  this,  and 
that  they  would  have  to  put  my  scenery,  etc.,  in 
the  old  building!  For  my  anxiety  to  keep  the 
scenery  free  from  damage  by  water  —  I  had  not 
thought  of  fire  —  what  luck!  !  So  with  a  lightened 
heart,  and  an  assumption  of  resignation  under  great 
stress  and  anxiety  —  which  I  think  was  really  an 
artistic  touch  —  I  hurried  to  the  offices  of  the 
Midland  Railway,  and  inquired  if  the  dreadful 
news  of  the  fire  was  true.  The  manager  said  that 
unfortunately  it  was,  that  the  place  was  "  burnt 
out." 

"  Oh!  "  I  gasped,  leaning  heavily  on  a  desk,  over- 
come by  this  intelligence  and  quickly  producing 
the  letter  I  had  received  from  the  company. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  manager,  glancing  through  it, 
"  I  'm  afraid  you  are  a  heavy  loser,  sir;  take  a  seat 
for  a  moment  and  I  '11  make  further  inquiries." 

There  was  another  occupant  of  the  office,  a  pro- 
vincial manager.    He  said: 

"  I  'm  afraid  we  are  both  in  the  same  boat  on 
this  journey.  My  stuff  is  all  burnt,  but  mine  was 
only  a  little  lot  and  old  stuff  too,  last  years  Panto, 
270 


MORE    BAD   LUCK 

but  at  the  same  time  it  was  useful  for  chopping  up 
—  and  Dick  Whittington  is  always  good  for  the 
'fit  ups.'  But  yours  is  a  different  story,"  he  said, 
"  you  can't  replace  it." 

"No,  indeed,"  I  replied,  quite  truthfully  and 
with  an  air  of  assumed  careless  indifference,  "  but 
1  hope  I  'm  man  enough  to  bear  any  financial  shock 
calmly  and  philosophically." 

At  that  moment  the  manager  hurried  into  the 
office  and  said  excitedly,  that  after  receiving  my 
last  urgent  letter  about  keeping  the  scenery  dry, 
they  had  with  great  difficulty  made  room  for  it  in 
the  New  wing  to  oblige  me,  so  it  was  untouched. 

"  What!  "  I  exclaimed,  "  not  burnt?  " 

"  No  "  was  the  answer,  "  the  flames  were  never 
near  it!" 

I    suppressed    an    exclamation    beginning   with 

D with  difficulty  —  and  with  a  hollow  laugh, 

said,  "  That  is  fortunate,"  the  country  manager 
seized  my  hand  and  nearly  shook  it  off  —  as  he  con- 
gratulated me. 

I  went  out  into  the  station  bar  and  had  a  whiskey 
and  soda. 

This  is  an  example  of  what  real  bad  luck  is. 

I  never  had  such  an  unfortunate  theatrical  time 
in  my  life  as  I  went  through  at  this  period,  and 
one  night  at  the  Tatler's  Club  (a  little  club  I 
founded  in  conjunction  with  Duff  Tayler,  Harry 
Lawrence  and  Paul  Rubens),  I  was  pouring  out 
my  grievances  to  Fred  Terry,  who  listened  very 
quietly  and  I  thought  indifferently,  till  I  almost  ac- 
cused him  of  not  being  sympathetic  because  he  was 
always  so  successful  and  always  in  a  fine  engage- 

271 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

ment,  when  he  astonished  me  by  telling  me  that  he 
had  done  nothing  for  over  a  year.  I  could  scarcely 
believe  it,  and  he  modestly  informed  me  that  he  was 
going  to  try  a  "kick"  of  his  own  with  a  play  called 
"  Sweet  Nell  of  Old  Drury  "  at  the  Haymarket. 
This  play  was  a  great  success  and  he  has  never 
looked  back  since,  but  it  was  a  great  speculation  on 
his  part  and  he  was  deservedly  rewarded  for  his 
pluck  and  enterprise.  One  thinks,  when  one  is  pour- 
ing out  one's  grievances  to  another  person,  that  the 
monopoly  of  misfortune  entirely  belongs  to  the 
speaker.  The  American  drummer  (commercial 
traveller)  has  a  method  of  reminding  one  that  this 
is  not  so,  by  presenting  a  card  on  which  is  printed 
"  I  have  troubles  of  my  own."  The  revival  of 
"  The  Pantomime  Rehearsal  "  had  a  very  short  run, 
and  for  many  months  I  had  no  plays  and  no  en- 
gagements, so  I  sold  my  house  in  Tavistock  Square, 
took  a  furnished  flat,  and  stored  all  my  furniture. 


272 


CHAPTER   XXII 

"The  Night  of  the  Party."    Photographed 
with  a  Lion 

HAVING  nothing  to  do,  I  took  advantage 
of  the  opportunity  to  write  a  farce,  "  The 
Night  of  the  Party,"  a  good  deal  of 
which  was  taken  from  life,  and  I  mod- 
elled the  juvenile  part  of  Frank  Frayne  on  my 
old  friend  Willie  Stone  —  the  well-known  globe 
trotter  and  man  about  town.  Alderman  Hagen, 
Flambert,  the  high-class  butler  of  the  "  Inner 
Circle,"  Crosbie  (Frayne's  butler),  played  by  my- 
self, Lady  Hampshire,  and  Gipsy  Vandeleur  were 
all  taken  from  life,  and  I  worked  hard  on  this  play, 
both  in  London  and  at  Harwich  —  to  my  mind  one 
of  the  quaintest  and  most  delightful  of  the  sea- 
side places  in  England,  and  it  was  a  bitter  blow 
to  me  when  the  Great  Eastern  Hotel  (now,  thank 
goodness,  reopened  with  great  success),  where  I 
always  stayed,  closed  its  doors. 

Arthur  Bourchier  gave  me  an  engagement  in 
October  of  1900,  to  play  in  the  late  Captain  Mar- 
shall's play,  "  The  Noble  Lord,"  at  the  Criterion  in 
company  with  Miss  Ellis  Jeffreys,  Annie  Hughes, 
Mrs.  Du  Maurier  (then  Miss  Beaumont),  George 
Giddens,  and  Bourchier  himself.  It  ran  for  five 
months.    Having  finished  my  play,  "  The  Night  of 

273 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

the  Party,"  I  engaged  a  company,  my  wife  play- 
ing the  leading  woman's  part  —  Lady  Hamp- 
shire—  and  we  started  rehearsing  in  an  empty 
house  in  Russell  Square,  lent  by  Mr.  James 
Coade,  who  was  financing  the  play.  We  tried  the 
play  "  on  the  dog,"  as  the  vulgar  saying  goes,  at 
Southend  and  it  caught  on  at  once.  We  opened  in 
London  on  May  i,  1901,  at  the  Avenue  Theatre, 
with  great  success,  and  regardless  of  the  dreadful 
heat  all  through  the  summer,  (my  luck),  we  ran  the 
play  for  eight  months  in  London.  "  The  Night  of 
the  Party  "  was  also  a  great  success  in  the  Provinces 
and  is  still  being  played  there.  I  took  it  to  America 
and  Canada  myself.  It  was  also  a  success  in  Aus- 
tralia, Africa,  and  India.  I  played  the  part  of 
Crosbie  about  seven  hundred  times,  and  Sebastian 
Smith,  who  began  as  my  understudy,  must  have 
played  it  nearly  a  thousand  times!  !  1  It  is  a  fact 
that  my  wife  never  missed  one  performance  for 
nearly  two  years. 

I  wrote  the  play,  acted  the  chief  part,  designed 
the  scenery  and  painted  the  poster. 

Arthur  Eldred,  whose  first  part  it  was  on  the 
professional  stage,  was  most  successful  in  the  char- 
acter of  Roundle  (the  Apollo)  a  footman,  and 
Hubert  Druce,  my  stage  manager,  made  such  a 
success  in  the  character  of  Flambert  (the  Butler) 
—  modelled  on  a  personal  servant  to  his  late  Majesty 
King  Edward  VII — that  he  has  been  doomed  to 
play  fashionable  butlers  ever  since. 

The  morning  after  the  production  my  old  friend 
the  late  Sir  J.  Henry  Johnson,  who  always  took 
great  interest  in  my  theatrical  doings,  wired  me, 
274 


I'ltolo  Hay-.ca  nt  6-  Co. 

WEEDON    GROSSM1TH    NURSING    "  LITTLE   GEORGE" 


"THE   NIGHT   OF   THE    PARTY" 

"  Have  read  the  Telegraph,  so  very  sorry  the  play  is 
not  a  success,"  but  half  an  hour  afterwards  I  re- 
ceived another  wire  from  him,  saying,  "  Have  read 
the  Morning  Post,  most  hearty  congratulations  on 
your  great  success  both  as  author  and  actor."  Quot 
homines,  tot  sententicz,  and  so  what  gives  pleasure 
to  one  critic  is  poison  to  another.  This  little  inci- 
dent will  amuse  my  friends  Edward  Morton  and 
B.  W.  Findon. 

Whatever  I  have  done  in  the  way  of  writing 
plays,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  and  the  majority 
have  doubtless  been  indifferent,  they  have  at  least 
been  original,  or  fancies  of  my  own  creation.  They 
have  not  been  stolen  from  the  French  or  German 
or  any  other  nation,  and  they  have  not  been  either 
adaptations,  translations,  or  merely  cribs. 

I  have  done  many  foolish  things  in  my  life,  but 
perhaps  the  most  stupid  and  dangerous  event  hap- 
pened on  an  occasion  when  I  went  to  see  my  old 
friend  J.  L.  Toole  at  Margate,  where  he  was  living, 
quite  invalided  and  suffering  a  great  deal  of  pain, 
and  very  depressed.  Frank  Arlton,  his  nephew,  was 
devoting  his  life  to  looking  after  Toole,  and  any- 
one who  could  cause  him  to  smile  or  attract  his  atten- 
tion was  in  himself  a  godsend,  anything  to  shake 
off  the  dreadful  depression  from  which  he  suffered. 

Sanger's  Menagerie  was  stationed  at  the  Hall  by 
the  sea,  and  I  remembered  having  seen  pictures 
in  the  illustrated  papers  of  ladies  nursing  a  little 
lion  cub  belonging  to  Sanger,  and  it  occurred  to  me 
that  I  would  be  photographed  with  the  lion  cub 
to  amuse  Toole.  So  off  I  walked  in  the  morning  to 
the  grounds  at  the  back  of  the  Hall  by  the  sea,  where 

275 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

the  lion  lived  with  the  keeper  and  his  wife.  He 
slept  on  an  ordinary  bedstead  in  the  room  adjoining 
theirs.  They  seemed  not  a  little  surprised  when  I 
suggested  being  photographed  nursing  "  little 
George,"  but  said  they  would  get  a  photographer 
round  immediately,  and  invited  me  to  sit  on  a  stool 
while  they  fetched  "  George,"  who  was  prowling 
about  in  the  grounds.  When  the  photographer 
arrived  with  his  usual  paraphernalia,  I  asked  him 
whether  he  had  taken  the  little  chap  often.  "  Oh 
yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  used  to,  but  that 's  some  time 
ago,  perhaps  four  or  five  months.  Ahl "  he  ejacu- 
lated, "  '  George'  must  be  getting  a  big  boy  now." 

At  that  moment  the  keeper  appeared,  stagger- 
ing along  carrying  "  George,"  who  was  grinning 
and  snarling,  and  hanging  half  over  his  back. 

I  was  amazed  at  his  size,  he  was  almost  as  big 
as  a  donkey,  and  when  he  was  thrown  on  to  my  lap 
I  discovered  he  was  twice  as  heavy,  the  bones  being 
so  broad  and  thick  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  hold  him. 
The  weight  was  awful  and  the  keys  in  my  right  hand 
trousers  pocket  were  pressing  into  my  leg!  I 
have  never  felt  more  uncomfortable,  and  I  sugges- 
ted that  the  photograph  should  be  postponed,  but 
the  keeper  said,  "  You  had  better  be  done  now, 
as  'George'  is  going  into  the  cage  in  a  few  weeks, 
he  's  really  too  old  to  be  photographed  outside  it." 
At  that  moment  "George"  saw  a  dog  in  the  distance 
and  leapt  off  my  lap,  the  "  kick  off  "  sending  me 
flying  backwards. 

This  was  a  good  opportunity  for  me  to  suggest 
that  another  time  would  be  more  appropriate,  but 
neither  the  keeper  nor  the  photographer  would  hear 
276 


NURSING   LITTLE   GEORGE 

of  a  postponement.  So  after  "  George  "  had  leapt  in 
the  air  and  over  the  chairs  and  made  himself  gen- 
erally offensive,  crouching  down  to  stalk  a  horse 
which  he  had  suddenly  espied  in  a  field  or  half 
killing  a  dog,  the  keeper  recaptured  him  and 
brought  him  to  me  once  more,  and  with  the  same 
kind  of  movement,  threw  him  on  to  my  lap,  and 
clasped  the  beast  round  the  waist,  calling  him 
"  George,  dear."  He  struck  at  his  keeper  twice 
with  his  paws,  accompanying  the  movement  by 
growls  and  hisses.  To  endeavour  to  pacify  him  I 
stroked  him  gently  on  the  head,  when,  to  my  horror, 
he  made  a  grab  at  my  hand,  and  as  I  rapidly  with- 
drew it,  I  felt  his  horrid  teeth  scrape  against  my 
fingers.  The  keeper  seemed  bewildered  for  a  mo- 
ment and  cuffed  "  George  "  two  or  three  hard  blows 
on  the  head,  which  made  him  more  irritable.  Feel- 
ing most  uncomfortable,  "  Another  time,"  I  shouted. 
"  Let  us  postpone  this,"  and  I  am  bound  to  admit  I 
was  a  little  frightened. 

It  was  a  very  cold  morning,  and  I  had  come  out 
without  an  overcoat  and  was  feeling  very  chilly. 
What  I  should  like  to  have  done  would  have  been 
to  push  "  George  "  off  my  lap  and  walk  briskly 
back  to  the  hotel.  But  I  felt  pretty  positive  that 
had  I  done  such  a  thing  that  cub  would  have  seized 
me  by  the  leg  or  sprung  at  me.  So  I  deemed  it 
wiser  to  continue  fondling  him,  with  my  right  arm 
round  the  body  and  the  left  under  the  neck;  the 
beast  was  in  a  bad  temper,  hissing  and  snarling  and 
shaking  his  head.  The  photographer  suddenly 
shouted,  "  All  right,  now  I  'm  ready.  Smile,  please 
smile,"  and  with  difficulty  I  assumed  my  best  smile, 

277 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

a  "wooden  smile,"  as  Cecil  Raleigh  always  de- 
scribes it.  I  was  only  just  in  time,  for  in  another 
second  "  George  "  indulged  in  another  "  kick  off  "  in 
pursuit  of  a  collie  dog. 

"George"  went  into  the  cage  very  shortly  after, 
and  I  have  seen  this  handsome  creature,  full  grown, 
drawn  through  the  town  by  four  horses,  safely  caged 
behind  stout  iron  bars. 

Corney  Grain  used  to  say  he  never  went  into 
Society  (with  a  capital  S)  unless  he  was  paid  to 
do  so.  I  seldom  go  into  Society,  either  —  not  for 
that  reason,  but  for  a  still  more  cogent  one,  I  am 
not  often  asked !  When  I  say  Society,  I  mean  the 
small,  important  circle,  not  the  enormous  collection 
frequently  dubbed  "  Society "  by  the  writers  of 
"  Fashionable  Intelligence "  in  the  halfpenny 
papers.  Occasionally,  when  invited  inside  this 
charmed  and  charming  circle,  I  have  thoroughly 
enjoyed  myself.  Once  or  twice  only,  in  the  early 
days  of  my  stage  career,  was  I  embarrassed  by  the 
feeling  that  some  of  my  fellow  guests  thought  I 
was  going  to  "  do  something  "  to  entertain  them  and 
resented  it  when  they  found  that  it  was  not  the  case. 
I  recall  one  delightful  luncheon  at  a  mansion  in 
Carlton  House  Terrace,  about  a  dozen  years  ago, 
when  my  hostess  came  up  to  me  later  in  the  draw- 
ing room,  and  said  with  a  fascinating  smile,  "Oh, 
Mr.  Weedon  Grossmith,  won't  you  do  something 
for  us?  Do!  Any  little  thing  —  a  song  of  your 
own,  or  something,  or  tell  a  funny  story."  I  as- 
sured her  earnestly  that  I  had  no  "  parlour  tricks " 
whatever,  and  had  never  been  guilty  of  such  a  mis- 
demeanour as  "  reciting"  in  my  life;  she  was  dis- 
278 


PAYING   FOR  YOUR   STALL 

tinctly  disappointed,  and  a  dozen  or  so  of  her 
other  guests  who  had  gathered  round  us  moved  off, 
murmuring,  "What  a  sell!  "  or  words  to  that  effect. 
Before  I  left  the  house  an  elderly  gentleman  and 
his  wife  came  up  and  shook  me  warmly  by  the 
hand,  and  the  wife  said,  "  Mr.  Weedon  Grossmith, 
I  always  go  to  see  you  act  in  all  your  plays,  I  like 
your  management  so  much,  and  I  always  feel  so 
thoroughly  safe  in  your  theatre."  Her  husband 
hastened  to  explain  that  this  remark  did  not  refer  to 
the  pleasant  and  moral  tone  of  the  plays  I  produced, 
but  to  the  fact  that  as  his  wife  was  terribly  afraid 
of  fire,  and  they  had  noticed  that  I  never  allowed 
my  stalls  to  be  overcrowded,  they  felt  that  in  case 
of  fire  there  would  be  no  danger  of  a  great  crowd 
making  an  ugly  rush  for  the  exit  doors.  I  had  been 
having  a  run  of  very  bad  luck  with  plays 
for  some  time  previous  to  "  The  Night  of  the 
Party,"  and  had  produced  two  if  not  three 
"  moderates  "  in  quick  succession.  A  few  months 
later  I  saw  this  dear  old  couple  beaming  at  me 
from  the  stalls,  where  they  had  a  whole  row  to 
themselves,  and  probably  imagined  I  had  "  ar- 
ranged "  it  so  for  their  especial  benefit.  They 
looked  very  happy,  much  more  so  than  I  felt,  as  my 
notice  was  up,  and  in  the  following  week  I  put  up 
the  shutters  and  said,  "  Next,  please." 


279 


CHAPTER   XXIII 
A  Drury  Lane  Drama 

I  HAD  pencilled  a  few  dates  for  an  autumn 
tour  of  "The  Night  of  the  Party"  for  1903, 
(it  is  always  a  good  standing  dish),  when  I 
received  a  letter  from  Arthur  Collins,  the 
energetic  and  enterprising  manager  of  Drury  Lane 
Theatre,  asking  me  if  my  engagement  would  permit 
me  to  call  upon  him  at  the  theatre  the  following 
morning. 

I  thought  perhaps  he  wished  to  "  back  "  a  farce 
and  wanted  me  to  produce  and  play  in  it.  He  has 
always  been  rather  keen  on  having  a  "  bit "  in  a 
farce,  because  he  realises  that  the  production  is  not 
a  very  costly  one  as  a  rule,  and  the  expenses  are 
usually  in  proportion,  so  that  if  the  farce  should 
catch  on  (it  is  ten  to  one  it  does  n't)  it  is  the  biggest 
money-maker,  theatrically,  I  know  of. 

I  went  to  the  theatre  the  following  morning,  was 
shown  into  Collins'  private  office,  and  he  took  me 
into  the  Saloon  to  talk  business.  By  the  way,  the 
Saloon  is  big  enough  to  hold  another  theatre  for 
comedy  and  farce. 

We  paced  up  and  down  this  palatial  room  whilst 
Arthur  Collins  was  propounding  his  scheme,  which 
was  an  offer  for  me  to  play  the  chief  comedy  part 
280 


A   DRURY   LANE   DRAMA 

in  the  forthcoming  autumn  drama,  a  very  sensa- 
tional play  by  Cecil  Raleigh,  called  "  The  Flood 
Tide." 

Now  I  confess  that  I  had  always  yearned  to  play 
in  a  Drury  Lane  drama. 

It  would  be  something  new  to  me,  accompanied 
with  plenty  of  excitement,  getting  far  away  from 
loafing  through  a  four-act  comedy  in  dress  clothes 
all  the  time,  or  rushing  and  tearing  in  the  same 
costume,  through  doors,  under  tables,  or  out  of 
windows,  or  into  beds  in  a  three-act  farce.  So  I 
put  my  cards  on  the  table  and  confessed  that  I 
"should  love  to  play  in  a  Drury  Lane  drama." 

Arthur  Collins  then  assumed  a  very  grave  ex- 
pression, saying  that  nothing  would  please  him 
better  also,  but  it  was  a  matter  of  terms.  I  had 
never  seen  that  expression  on  his  face  before. 

I  named  the  salary  that  I  had  hitherto  received, 
and  told  him  I  would  take  the  same  from  him. 
For  a  moment  and  only  for  a  moment,  his  expression 
showed  surprise.  I  observed  a  slight  elevation  of 
his  eyebrows.  I  am  positive  he  was  prepared  for 
me  to  mention  a  much  higher  sum,  for  his  answer 
was  not  quite  consistent  with  his  previous  grav- 
ity. He  assumed  perplexity  and  muttered,  "  By 
Jove,  yes ! "  and  then  bit  his  lip.  This  was 
rather  bad  acting,  and  with  a  slight  shake  of  the 
head  he  said,  "  That 's  a  lot  of  money,"  and  he 
had  to  consider  his  duty  to  his  directors,  and  per- 
haps he  "  ought  to  place  it  before  them  first,"  etc., 
then  quite  suddenly  he  said,  "  Well,  come  into  the 
office." 

I  knew  of  course  the  directors  had  left  the  matter 

281 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

entirely  to  him.  Collins  produced  a  printed  agree- 
ment and  in  an  open-hearted,  generous  manner 
said,  "  Perhaps  you  had  better  sign  at  once,  other- 
wise Cecil  Raleigh  will  approach  —  er  "  (he  was 
thinking  who  Cecil  Raleigh  would  approach)  "  as 
a  matter  of  fact,"  continued  Collins,  "  he  has 
approached,  I  daresay  you  know  who,  and  he  is 
simply  dying  to  play  the  part,  and,  by  the  way,  I 
promised  to  send  him  a  telegram."  Though  none 
of  these  remarks  impressed  me,  I  signed  the  agree- 
ment with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  the  world  and 
without  any  conditions. 

On  asking  to  be  allowed  to  read  the  play,  as  is 
usual  when  a  manager  is  arranging  with  an  alleged 
"  star,"  I  was  told  that  it  was  "  quite  impossible," 
and  indeed  the  last  act  was  not  written,  and  the 
author  generally  completed  that  irksome  task  at 
Folkestone  during  the  week-ends,  while  the  other 
acts  were  being  rehearsed.  This  proceeding  I 
thought  not  unusual,  as  I  had  always  heard  that 
Sheridan  wrote  the  last  act  of  "  Pizarro "  on 
the  first  night  of  the  production  at  Drury  Lane  in 
1800  while  the  play  was  proceeding. 

There  was  one  very  important  matter  that  was 
not  mentioned  before  I  signed  the  agreement,  and 
that  was  whether  I  should  have  to  appear  in  the 
great  sensational  scene  in  "  The  Flood  Tide."  This 
"  plum  "  is  always  kept  in  reserve — so  I  heard  after- 
wards. In  this  sensational  scene  you  may  have  to 
be  run  over  by  a  train,  thrown  from  a  precipice  — 
sometimes  wired,  not  always.  If  a  comedian  has  to 
play  the  part,  he  will  probably  not  be  wired,  as  his 
fall  is  sure  to  be  amusing,  or  be  blown  up  to  the 
282 


A    DRURY   LANE    DRAMA 

giddy  height  of  the  borders,  and  with  a  carefully 
fixed  wire  drawn  up  in  a  couple  of  seconds,  and  on 
arriving  at  your  destination,  a  platform  about  three 
feet  square,  you  are  expected  to  give  the  stage  hand, 
who  is  waiting  to  unhook  you,  a  shilling  at  least  for 
doing  his  duty,  and  it 's  best  and  wisest  to  be  pre- 
pared to  do  so. 

All  these  little  events  come  as  a  happy  surprise  to 
the  actor  or  actress  who  plays  in  a  Drury  Lane 
drama  for  the  first  time.  Nothing  could  have  been 
more  pleasant  than  the  rehearsals,  which  commen- 
ced at  the  convenient  time  of  two  o'clock  and  con- 
tinued till  six,  with  tea  served  to  all  members  of 
the  company  at  four  o'clock.  This  is  a  much  more 
sensible  plan  than  the  usual  time  selected  by  mana- 
gers, beginning  at  eleven  and  continuing  till  three 
with  no  interval  for  lunch,  as  is  frequently  the  case 
even  at  the  best  theatres :  one  cannot  work  without 
food  and  it  is  exceedingly  selfish  of  a  manager,  be- 
cause his  habit  is  to  make  a  big  breakfast  at  ten  and 
lunch  at  three-thirty,  to  expect  everyone  else  to  fall 
in  with  his  eccentricities,  whereas  if  an  adjourn- 
ment is  made  for  half  an  hour,  everyone  returns  fit 
for  their  work  again. 

An  adjournment  for  an  hour  and  a  half  is  fatal, 
as  I  have  discovered,  where  Charles  Hawtrey  has 
been  holding  the  managerial  reins;  he  is  a  good- 
natured,  irresponsible  chap,  who  refuses  to  take  any- 
thing too  seriously,  and  will  lunch  during  the  in- 
terval at  the  Carlton  in  the  leisurely  style  of  an 
English  squire,  quite  oblivious  of  the  fleeting  time; 
but  even  this  is  far  preferable  to  the  selfish,  dog- 
matic,    narrow-minded     tyrant,     who    cares     not 

283 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

whether  you  are  hungry  so  long  as  he  or  she  is 
not. 

The  two  to  six  plan  of  Arthur  Collins  is  an  ad- 
mirable one.  You  are  not  dragged  out  of  your 
bed  early  in  the  morning,  and  you  have  all  that 
part  of  the  day  to  attend  to  your  private  business 
and  study  your  part  and  learn  the  words,  always  a 
very  difficult  accomplishment  with  me.  I  wander  for 
hours  round  the  outskirts  of  London,  ride  in  four- 
wheel  cabs  (taxis  are  no  good),  and  frequently  take 
a  "  non-stop  "  train  to,  say,  Peterborough.  And  if 
you  are  quite  alone  in  the  carriage  and  buy  nothing 
to  read,  you  have  nothing  to  distract  you.  I  went  to 
East  Ham  one  day  and  had  to  change  at  Stepney 
and  wait  half  an  hour  for  a  train,  at  which  I  was 
delighted,  for  a  more  unattractive  station  it  had 
never  been  my  good  fortune  to  wait  at.  The  result 
was  I  learned  nearly  half  an  act.  I  never  learn 
from  the  type-written  part,  but  always  copy  it  into 
a  little  book. 

The  rehearsals  at  Drury  Lane  were  wonderfully 
conducted,  and  it  requires  a  considerable  knowl- 
edge of  management  and  a  Napoleonic  power  to 
control  between  three  or  four  hundred  people,  and 
I  found  Collins  the  personification  of  coolness  and 
self-control.  Only  on  one  occasion  he  for  a  minute 
seemed  to  lose  control  of  his  temper,  when  address- 
ing the  mechanics  down  below  under  the  stage  who 
were  working  the  huge  lifts  or,  to  be  more  correct, 
had  omitted  to  do  so,  and  his  language  even  then 
was  not  objectionable,  because  it  was  not  under- 
standable; otherwise  Lady  Tree,  then  Mrs.  Beer- 
bohm  Tree,  who  was  playing  the  adventuress,  would 
284 


A   DRURY   LANE    DRAMA 

not  have  said  in  a  very  innocent  voice  to  Miss 
Margaret  Halstan  (the  good  girl  of  the  play), 
"  What  does  he  mean,  dear?  " 

I  had  to  make  my  entrance  in  a  dog  cart,  the 
near  wheel  catching  the  wing  as  I  drove  on.  I 
then  had  to  leap  from  the  cart,  accompanied  by 
loud  and  exhilarating  music  composed  by  James 
Glover,  which  terminated  with  a  big  chord  as  I 
embraced  "  Polly,"  my  sweetheart,  played  by  Miss 
Claire  Romaine. 

I  had  plenty  of  excitement  right  through  and  in 
the  racing  scene,  when  it  was  discovered  that  I  had 
"scratched  "my  horse  (the  favourite), I  was  welshed 
and  carried  off  on  their  shoulders  by  a  huge  crowd 
of  supers,  some  of  them  porters  hailing  from 
Covent  Garden  Market.  But  whatever  trouble  and 
excitement  I  had  gone  through,  and  I  must  say  the 
welshing  was  conducted  on  very  realistic  princi- 
ples, it  was  nothing  compared  to  what  was  in  store 
for  me  at  the  end  of  the  third  act.  The  parts 
were  handed  out  to  Norman  McKinnell  and  C.  W. 
Somerset,  who  played  the  two  villains,  for  the  big 
sensational  scene,  Scene  IV,  Act  III,  "The  Boat- 
house  at  Blackmere  Lake."  I  heard  McKinnell 
growling  to  Somerset,  "Oh!  We're  in  for  it!" 
I  cheerily  remarked,  "  I  'm  sorry  for  you  chaps, 
but,  thank  goodness,  I  am  not  on  in  the  '  sensation ' 
scene."  "  Oh  yes,  you  are"  said  Somerset  with  a 
fiendish  grin.  I  thought  he  was  joking  till  the  stage 
manager  handed  me  my  part;  then  there  was  no 
further  doubt,  and  I  read  the  following  description 
of  what  I  was  expected  to  do:  "Wellington  Clip" 
(that  was  the  part  I  played)  has  to  witness  a  terrible 

285 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

encounter  between  the  two  men,  on  the  small  island 
on  the  great  Blackmere  Lake.  "  Clip  is  terrified  and 
rushes  into  the  boathouse,  and  climbs  the  stairs  to 
the  top  of  a  two-storied  house,  but,  finding  he  is 
pursued,  scrambles  on  to  the  roof,  where  he  hangs 
clutching  on  to  the  sloping  gable,  as  he  is  being 
pursued  by  the  villains,  who  are  intent  on  mur- 
dering him.  A  terrific  roar  is  heard.  The  great 
dam  has  burst,  and  a  huge  volume  of  water  floods 
the  stage.  The  boathouse  is  swept  away,  and  as  it  is 
falling  and  breaking  to  pieces,  Clip  leaps  on  to  a 
big  branch  of  a  tree  which  is  rapidly  passing  in  the 
swirl  of  the  flood!  " 

After  reading  this  description,  I  walked  round  to 
the  Law  Accident  Insurance  Society  in  the  Strand, 
and  took  out  an  accident  insurance  policy  for  a 
large  sum.  I  was  half  inclined  to  take  this  step 
after  rehearsing  the  welshing  scene  at  the  races, 
but  the  curious  incidents  that  were  to  occur  at 
Blackmere  Lake  quite  decided  me.  Scene  III,  Act 
III,  was  what  is  termed  a  front  scene.  It  was  very 
dark,  and  a  couple  of  dozen  men  dressed  as  work- 
men, with  lanterns  in  their  hands  and  pickaxes,  were 
discussing  the  seriousness  of  the  continuance  of  wet 
weather.  It  was  difficult  to  hear  all  they  said,  for 
dozens  of  men  were  knocking  and  hammering  be- 
hind, getting  ready  the  big  sensational  scene.  After 
this,  Lady  Tree  was  heard  bribing  Norman  Mc- 
Kinnell,  an  Italian  scoundrel,  to  murder  the  lunatic 
millionaire,  played  by  Charles  Somerset  to  slow 
music. 

When  they  had  departed  the  workmen  re-entered ; 
some  had  struck  work,  fearing  a  great  accident,  and 
286 


A   DRURY   LANE    DRAMA 

the  chief  of  the  gang,  who  shouted  and  he  had  to 
shout  loudly  to  give  the  "  music  cue,"  informed  his 
mates  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "  Things  can't  go  on 
much  longer,  lads.  The  masonry  is  giving  already. 
We  have  had  three  months  of  continuous  rain,  and 
with  another  night  of  this  cursed  deluge  the  great 
dam  which-has-taken-seven-years-to-build-will  be 
in  Blackmere  Lake  by  —  the  —  morning!  /  /" 

The  stage  suddenly  "  blackened  out."  We  are  all 
in  total  darkness,  black  gauzes  are  lowered.  There 
are  shouts  from  the  stage  manager.  "Strike I! 
Lower  your  borders!"  Stage  hands  rush  in  every 
direction,  carrying  something,  or  pushing  some- 
thing. 

"Mind  your  backs!"  they  shout.  "You  jump 
aside!"  The  safest  place  is  close  to  the  curtain, 
down  by  the  footlights.  I  noticed  Jack  Barnes  was 
continually  bumped  into.  As  he  was  saying, 
"  Where  the  devil,"  etc.,  another  push  came  from 
the  opposite  side.  I  often  thought  they  did  it  on 
purpose. 

"Get  on  your  blues!  Down  with  the  borders! 
Take  care!  Who's  working  the  lifts?  Then  why 
the  devil  don't  you  do  it?  Come  on!  Look  out! 
Get  your  cloth  down  above  there.  Now  then,  boys," 
etc. 

"No.  3  is  too  low!     Do  you  hear?     Too  low. 

Get  your  props.    D n  it,  mind  the  batten!    Why 

the  turn,  rum,  fum  rum,  don't  you  do  what  you  're 
told?  "  etc.  The  front  row  of  the  stalls  frequently 
complain  of  the  loudness  of  the  band,  particularly 
the  brass,  and  wonder  why  it  is  not  remedied,  but 
James  Glover,  the  conductor,  knows  why! 

287 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

"  Look  out  for  your  calls  I  "  Then  a  boy  with  an 
electric  torch  leads  you  through  rocks,  rivers,  spars 
of  iron,  and  cautions  you  against  an  open  trap,  and 
conducts  you  to  your  place.  The  band  is  still  crash- 
ing and  booming,  an  electric  sign  to  the  orchestra, 
and  the  music  changes  to  the  tremolo  and  mysteri- 
ous. The  gauzes  rise  slowly,  opening  on  the  big  sen- 
sational scene.  The  gallery  is  noisy  with  shouts  of 
"  Down  in  front!  Order,  please!  Take  off  your  'at," 
"  Lay  down!  "  etc. 

I  shall  never  forget  that  first  night,  when  the 
flood  commenced.  Tons  of  rice  and  spangles 
poured  from  the  side  to  indicate  the  bursting  of 
the  dam.  Children  floated  by,  clinging  to  barrels 
and  floating  trees,  screaming  and  yelling,  especially 
as  some  of  them  got  frightened  and  tipping  side- 
ways fell  down  the  trap,  to  be  caught  by  the  men 
underneath.  Then  the  boat-house,  with  myself 
hanging  outside  from  the  roof,  commenced  to 
wobble,  and  then  the  whole  structure  toppled  over, 
and  a  huge  floating  tree  —  with  a  well-concealed 
mattress  —  passed  by,  and  Somerset  and  myself 
jumped  on  to  it  and  were  supposed  to  be  saved  as 
the  curtain  descended  slowly. 

One  night  the  tree  passed  too  quickly  for  us  to 
jump  on,  and  we  were  both  drowned! 

I  must  say  it  was  great  fun,  and  I  thoroughly  en- 
joyed myself,  as  I  think  everyone  did. 

"  Behind  the  scenes  "  of  a  sensational  drama  at 
Drury  Lane  is  a  marvellous  sight,  with  its  hun- 
dreds of  people  dashing  about,  and  it  requires  a 
remarkable  man  like  Arthur  Collins  to  keep  such  a 
gigantic  staff  in  order  as  he  does,  so  that  the  great 
288 


A   DRURY   LANE   DRAMA 

theatre,  with  its  huge  productions,  is  working  as 
smoothly  as  a  perfectly  made  machine.  It  is  not 
generally  known  that  Arthur  Collins  is  an  artist 
who  paints  admirably  and  that  he  was  originally 
intended  for  an  architect.  He  is  a  genuine  lover  of 
Art,  and  has  one  of  the  most  lovely  gardens  I  have 
seen,  a  perfect  background  for  his  beautiful  and 
popular  wife,  whose  portrait  he  painted  a  year  or 
two  ago. 


289 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

"The  Duke  of  Killicrankie"  and  "The 
Lady  of  Leeds,"  by  Capt.  Robert  Mar- 
shall. Frank  Curzon.  "The  Man  from 
Blankley's,"  by  Anstey.  Command  Per- 
formance at  Sandringham.  "  The  Van- 
Dyke,"  with  Sir  Herbert  Tree.  "  Mrs. 
Ponderbury's  Past."  "  Billy's  Bargain." 
"  Mr.  Preedy  and  the  Countess,"  by  R.  C. 
Carton.  "The  Early  Worm"  and  "Sir 
Anthony  " 

WHEN  lessee  of  the  Vaudeville  Theatre, 
I  wanted  a  first  piece,  and  read  a  hun- 
dred, and  the  only  piece  I  found  suit- 
able was  one  called  "  Shades  of 
Night,"  by  Captain  Robert  Marshall.  But  there 
was  no  address  on  the  play,  and  I  liked  it  so  much 
that  I  advertised  in  two  papers  to  find  the  author, 
he  being  in  the  wilds  of  Africa,  and  getting  no 
reply  I  had  to  forego  producing  it,  to  my  great 
regret.  This  was  the  first  play  Captain  Marshall 
had  written. 

After  the  Drury  Lane  drama  I  was  again  going  to 
tour  "  The  Night  of  the  Party,"  but  my  old  friend 
and  manager,  Arthur  Chudleigh,  wanted  me  to  play 
in  "  The  Duke  of  Killicrankie  "  at  the  Criterion 
Theatre.  This  clever  play  was  written  by  Captain 
290 


Photo  l-ltis  &■  tfalery 
WEEDON    GROSSMITH    AS    THE    HON.    PITT    WEI.liV    IN    "THE    DUKE    OK 
KILLIECRANKIE" 


"THE   DUKE   OF    KILLICRANKIE " 

Robert  Marshall,  and  Chudleigh  had  suggested 
it  would  in  all  probability  run  for  some  months, 
and  then  he  would  follow  it  with  a  play  I  had  pur- 
chased an  option  on.  I  am  ashamed  to  confess 
that  we  regarded  "  The  Duke  of  Killicrankie  "  in 
the  nature  of  a  "  stop  gap."  It  was  a  most  brilliant 
success  and  ran  for  a  year,  Miss  Marie  Illington  and 
Miss  Eva  Moore  playing  the  two  ladies'  parts  and 
Graham  Browne  and  myself  the  two  men.  In  the 
meantime  Captain  Marshall  was  writing  me  a  very 
fine  part  in  "  The  Lady  of  Leeds,"  and  R.  C.  Carton 
was  also  writing  me  a  fine  part  in  a  play  called 
"  Mr.  Hopkinson,"  which  Frank  Curzon  was 
going  to  produce.  Unfortunately  I  could  n't  be  in 
two  places  at  once,  and  as  I  had  just  finished  a  most 
pleasant  engagement  with  Chudleigh  in  Marshall's 
play,  I  thought  I  could  not  do  better  than  remain  on 
in  another  piece  by  the  same  author.  So  I  settled 
to  play  in  "  The  Lady  of  Leeds "  at  Wyndham's 
Theatre,  produced  by  Dion  Boucicault.  James 
Welch  played  in  "  Mr.  Hopkinson,"  which  was  a 
success,  but  unfortunately  "  The  Lady  of  Leeds "  was 
a  failure  and  ran  only  a  month.  And  oh !  the  expense 
of  the  production,  which  was  laid  in  Venice,  with 
all  the  stage  cut  up  (I  believe  it  has  never  been  safe 
and  solid  since)  to  allow  the  gondola  to  float  by. 

Miss  Nancy  Price  (now  Mrs.  Charles  Maude) 
had  a  great  part  and  was  most  successful  in  it.  I 
played  a  broken  down  ex-waiter  passing  off  as  a 
prince,  and  I  think  the  audience  even  in  farce  re- 
sented my  duping  the  rich  girl  and  eventually 
marrying  her.  Miss  Fortescue  was  also  included 
in  the  cast,   also  Miss  Souray,  a  very  beautiful 

291 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

woman,  now  Viscountess  Torrington.  Lowne  and 
Vane  Tempest  were  also  in  the  cast.  There  al- 
ways seemed  some  trouble  somewhere,  so  many 
difficulties  to  get  over.  A  bad  sign!  My  clothes 
cost  me  at  least  thirty  pounds,  "  and  even  that 
did  n't  make  the  piece  a  success."  The  play  was 
full  of  clever  work,  smart  lines,  etc.,  but  the  public 
did  n't  care  for  it,  —  so  that  excellent  sportsman, 
Arthur  Chudleigh,  who  never  permits  theatrical 
worries  to  show  on  his  good-natured  beaming  coun- 
tenance, shut  up  the  shop  after  a  four  weeks'  run. 
During  the  short  run  I  was  ill  for  a  week  with  the 
"  flue,"  and  during  that  time  my  dear  sister-in-law, 
Rosa  Grossmith,  passed  away  after  a  long  illness. 
The  play  I  had  an  option  on,  with  which  we  in- 
tended to  follow  Marshall's,  I  tried  "  on  the  dog  " 
in  the  country.  It  was  a  "  frost."  Frank  Curzon 
came  down  to  see  it  and  said  there  was  n't  a  "  bob  " 
in  it,  a  favourite  expression  of  his,  and  he  was  right 
too,  as  he  frequently  is.  My  wife  and  I  then  took 
a  holiday,  and  I  set  to  work  to  polish  up  a  play  I  had 
written  called  "  The  Duffer."  I  produced  it  at  the 
Comedy  Theatre  in  August,  1905.  Never  have  I 
put  out  such  energy,  assisted  by  my  stage  mana- 
ger, Hubert  Druce,  and  Hemsley,  the  scene 
painter,  for  the  scenery.  I  also  had  an  excellent 
"backer"  in  Mr.  James  Straus,  a  sportsman,  who 
did  n't  squabble  over  fourpence  halfpenny,  but  left 
matters  entirely  to  my  discretion.  The  first  act 
represented  the  Art  schools  of  the  Royal  Academy, 
and  being  an  old  student  there,  I  was  permitted  to 
take  drawings  of  the  rooms.  Hemsley  spent  hours 
there  with  me,  taking  careful  drawings,  and  repro- 
292 


"THE   DUFFER" 

ducing  the  schools  exactly  as  they  were,  even  in- 
cluding such  small  details  as  the  hot-air  gratings. 
The  curtain  rose,  in  Act  I,  on  all  the  students  at 
work,  male  and  female,  (for  they  worked  together 
in  those  days,  the  period  of  the  play,  1883),  draw- 
ing and  painting  from  the  semi-draped  model. 
Most  of  us  were  painting  "in  reality,  including  Miss 
Gertrude  Kingston,  Tom  Heslewood,  and  I.  Miss 
Marie  Lohr,  then  a  sweet  little  girl  of  fourteen  or 
so,  was  also  one  of  the  students.  I  am  positive  a 
realistic  picture  of  an  Art  school  was  never  more 
faithfully  produced.  The  late  Beryl  Faber  (Mrs. 
Cosmo  Hamilton),  a  most  beautiful  woman  and 
talented  actress,  played  the  leading  part. 

Henry  Ainley,  Tom  Lovell,  and  myself  played 
the  chief  men's  parts,  all  students.  Ainley  was  the 
young  erratic  genius,  Lovell  the  student,  handi- 
capped with  a  private  income,  not  having  much 
incentive  to  work,  and  myself  as  "  The  Duffer,"  so- 
called,  having  started  for  the  career  of  an  artist 
rather  late  in  life,  like  the  famous  Etty.  The  sec- 
ond act  was  an  old  studio  in  Fitzroy  Square,  with 
the  high  side  light,  and  shutters  put  up  half-way, 
with  a  fine  Adam  mantelpiece,  carved  architraves 
to  the  doors,  and  the  painted  ceiling,  another 
careful  reproduction,  not  seen  before  on  the  stage, 
but  copied  many  times  since.  The  ceiling,  fire- 
place, and  doors  were  reproductions  of  those  in  my 
own  house  in  Bedford  Square. 

I  had  very  little  credit  for  it,  because,  being  a 
comedian,  I  am  not  supposed  to  know  anything 
except  the  art  of  making  people  laugh.  If  it  had 
been  produced  by  a  tragedian  or  a  juvenile  actor, 

293 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

they  might  have  had  half  a  column  of  gush  in  most 
of  the  newspapers,  but  the  comedian  is  only  a  funny 
man  and  must  know  nothing  except  how  to  make 
people  laugh !  1 

Though  we  started  at  a  bad  time  of  the  year,  we 
ran  in  London  for  three  months  to  pretty  good 
business.  The  lamented  death  of  Sir  Henry  Irv- 
ing, which  occurred  suddenly  at  Bradford,  left  some 
dates  vacant  in  the  Provinces.  I  took  up  his  dates 
and  played  for  another  three  months  in  the  country 
with  success.  Had  the  play  been  written  round 
Tommy  Atkins  or  the  Sailor  Bold,  things  would  have 
been  better,  but  the  great  public  knows  little  of  the 
Art  of  Painting  and  cares  less!  So  I  finished  with 
the  play,  though  C.  W.  Somerset  and  Louis  Calvert 
took  it  on  for  a  few  months  longer  in  the  Provinces. 

Next,  please.  Frederick  Harrison  "  approached 
me  "  with  an  offer  (that  is  the  proper  expression,  I 
believe,  when  offering  an  alleged  star  a  fine  engage- 
ment) to  play  in  "  The  Man  from  Blankley's  "  at  the 
Haymarket  Theatre,  which  I  accepted,  and  it  ran  a 
year.  What  a  cast!  Fanny  Brough,  Charles  Haw- 
trey,  Harry  Kemble,  Holman  Clarke,  Arthur  Play- 
fair,  and  Aubrey  Fitzgerald  were  all  in  it. 

The  second  act  represented  a  dinner-party,  the 
guests  being  seated  at  a  round  table,  and  I  as  the  host 
had  to  sit  with  my  back  to  the  audience  for  half  an 
hour.  This  I  did  n't  mind,  but  when  we  played  it 
at  Sandringham  for  a  command  performance  I 
did  n't  like  sitting  so  long  with  my  back  to  Royalty. 
I  suppose  I  'm  the  only  actor  who  has  sat  for  half  an 
hour  with  his  back  to  his  King  and  Queen.  Our 
present  King  and  Queen  were  also  there.  I  was  so 
294 


"THE   MAN    FROM    BLANKLEY'S " 

near  the  front  seats  that  I  could  hear  nearly  every- 
thing they  said.  His  late  Majesty  Edward  VII  had 
not  seen  the  play  before,  but  he  kept  explaining  the 
different  characters  and  the  class  they  belonged  to,  to 
the  ladies  near  him,  who  had  seen  it  several  times. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  run  another  excellent 
sportsman,  Frank  Curzon,  engaged  me  at  a  retain- 
ing fee  to  play  "  when  required,"  but  as  he  had  no 
theatres  available  at  the  time  and  no  plays,  I  was  at 
liberty  to  act  where  I  liked,  if  I  liked.  So  I  ac- 
cepted a  most  delightful  engagement  with  my  old 
friend  Herbert  Tree  (now  Sir  Herbert)  to  play  in 
"  The  VanDyke,"  and  I  don't  believe  he  ever 
enjoyed  playing  in  a  piece  more  than  in  "  The  Van- 
Dyke,"  and  I  am  sure  he  was  never  in  finer  form. 
You  couldn  't  play  with  a  more  unselfish  actor;  he 
wished  me  to  make  as  much  of  my  part  as  I  possibly 
could,  and  suggested  that  I  should  write  it  up  a  bit, 
leaving  it  entirely  to  my  discretion.  The  parts  were 
very  equal,  one  was  as  good  as  the  other,  and  the 
audience  seemed  delighted  with  the  little  play. 

After  this  I  had  to  refuse  an  excellent  offer  at  the 
Haymarket  Theatre  from  Frederick  Harrison,  but 
I  did  n't  think  the  part  suited  me.  So  later  on,  when 
Hawtrey,  who  was  playing  in  "  Mrs.  Ponder- 
bury's  Past"  at  the  Vaudeville  Theatre,  wanted  a 
long  holiday  in  the  summer,  the  Gattis  en- 
gaged me  to  take  his  place  during  his  absence. 
That  clever  artist,  Miss  Illington,  played  my  wife. 

Then  on  tour  again  with  my  old  "  standing  dish," 
"  The  Night  of  the  Party,"  with  a  revival  in  London 
of  the  same  play  under  the  management  of  Frank 
Curzon  at  the  Apollo  Theatre  to  follow. 

295 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

During  the  autumn  tour  I  tried  a  new  play  I 
had  written  —  under  an  assumed  name  —  called 
"  Among  the  Brigands,"  which  I  afterwards  re- 
wrote and  renamed  and  took  on  tour  under  the  title 
of  "  Billy  Rotterford's  Descent,"  and  later  on  pro- 
duced at  the  Garrick  Theatre,  London,  under  the 
title  of  "  Billy's  Bargain."  We  tried  it  originally 
for  one  night  at  Birmingham.  While  staying  at  the 
Midland  Hotel  in  that  city,  I  asked  Tom  Lovell  to 
come  round  to  the  hotel  for  the  purpose  of  going 
through  the  words  with  me,  and  as  we  had  a  long 
scene  together,  I  suggested  that  we  should  go  over 
the  words  again  and  again  until  we  knew  them 
thoroughly.  I  took  him  into  the  Lounge, 
where  in  a  comfortable  corner  we  had  the  place 
almost  to  ourselves  and  scarcely  noticed  a 
middle-aged  man  sitting  a  little  way  from 
us.  "  Among  the  Brigands,"  as  the  play  was  then 
called,  was  one  of  the  wildest  sensational  farces  ever 
written,  and  in  the  first  act,  at  a  fast  party  given  by 
Billy  Rotterford  —  a  very  eccentric  individual  —  a 
"  waster  "  of  five  and  thirty  (played  by  myself),  he 
is  in  despair  because  his  father  has  declined  to  pay 
his  debts,  amounting  to  «£  10,000,  having  paid  them 
twice  before.  Colpoys,  the  part  allotted  to  Lovell, 
was  that  of  a  smart  but  shady  man  about  town. 
Very  mysteriously,  under  his  breath,  Colpoys  is  sug- 
gesting a  way  out  of  the  difficulty.  I  shall  never 
forget  that  evening  as  we  were  lolling  back  in  the 
lounge,  in  evening  dress  and  smoking  cigars.  I  will 
quote  some  of  the  dialogue,  which  ran  as  follows.  I 
was  Billy,  and  Tom  Lovell  was  Colpoys. 

Billy.  Money-lenders  are  no  good.  I  've  tired 
296 


Dover  Street  Studio 
WEEDON    C.ROSSMITH    AS    BII.I.Y    ROTTKRFORD    IN    "  BILLY'S    BARGAIN 


"BILLY'S    BARGAIN" 

out  the  Baron  (a  well-known  Hanley  money-lender) 
and  they  've  got  wind  that  the  Guv.  is  no  longer  a 
soft  thing. 

Colpoys  (in  a  whisper).  My  friend  is  no 
money-lender  —  he  never  lends. 

Billy.    Perhaps  he  steals. 

Colpoys.  What  if  he  does?  Billy,  your  father 
has  got  to  pay  somehow,  and  must  be  made  to. 

Billy.  You  don't  suggest  that  we  should  rob 
him! 

We  were  so  engrossed  in  our  parts  and  keen  on 
committing  the  words  to  memory  that  we  did  n't 
notice  we  were  being  closely  observed  by  a  gentle- 
man who  was  horrified  at  the  diabolical  remarks 
Lovell  was  hissing  out  under  his  breath.  He  caught 
such  passages,  in  a  loud  whisper,  as  "  This  man 
Vanderhausen  is  a  London  representative  of  the 
biggest  gang  of  thieves  in  Russia,  and  would  think 
no  more  of  throwing  a  bomb  than  lighting  a  cigar- 
ette." "  Why  should  we  scruple  at  robbing  your 
father?  If  it  was  n't  for  the  shame  of  being  locked 
up,  I  'd  snatch  his  watch  from  him  any  day,  and 
think  I  'd  done  ad  —  d  good  thing!" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  replied. 

Lovell  continued,  with  a  fiendish  expression  on 
his  face,  "  Vanderhausen's  people  are  armed  to  the 
teeth  with  the  best  kind  of  automatic  ten-shooter, 
and  would  never  be  taken  alive  "  (suiting  the  action 
to  the  words  as  if  he  had  a  pistol  in  his  pocket). 
He  would  make  a  stand.  I  believe  at  this  moment 
the  gentleman  rose  from  his  seat  and  went  to  the 
office  and  lodged  a  complaint  that,  as  he  was  carry- 
ing valuable  samples  of  jewellery,  he  did  n't  care 

297 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

to  remain  in  a  hotel  where  a  couple  of  well-dressed 
flash  men  were,  in  the  most  barefaced  way,  concoct- 
ing a  big  robbery,  and  who  belonged  to  a  huge 
gang  of  thieves.  He  said  the  tall  one  was  evidently 
a  most  desperate  character,  and  any  one  who 
attempted  to  arrest  him  would  be  shot  at  sight,  as 
he  made  a  most  blatant  boast  that  he  and  his  friends 
were  armed  to  the  teeth. 

The  manager  of  the  hotel,  not  a  little  alarmed, 
rang  the  electric  bell  for  the  porter,  and  on  its 
being  answered,  asked  who  was  in  the  Lounge.  And 
much  laughter  followed  when  the  porter  said, 
"  There  's  no  one  there  except  Mr.  Lovell  and  Mr. 
Weedon  Grossmith,  who  are  rehearsing  a  new 
play." 

The  manager  and  the  commercial  roared  with 
laughter,  and  the  former  told  the  latter  that  if  he 
wished  to  be  further  acquainted  with  "  the  gang  " 
he  had  better  book  a  stall  for  Wednesday  night  at 
the  "  Royal." 

In  this  curious  play,  I  had  arranged  to  get  kid- 
napped to  get  £10,000  from  my  father,  who,  having 
got  wind  of  the  swindle,  declined  to  pay,  and  in 
a  sensational  scene  the  brigands  hurl  me  over  a 
precipice,  and  although  I  am  supposed  to  fall  a 
thousand  feet,  the  fall  is  broken  half-way  down  by 
my  alighting  on  the  backs  of  a  huge  flight  of  wild 
geese.  I  had  a  wonderful  dummy  made  of  myself, 
dressed  exactly  as  I  was  in  the  part,  and  Tussaud 
modelled  the  head  and  hands  from  sittings  I  gave 
him.  It  was  the  finest  model  I  have  ever  seen.  On 
tour,  after  the  first  performance,  the  model  was 
laid  in  a  little  room  instead  of  being  put 
298 


POSTER    FOR    "  BILLY'S    BARGAIN." 
DESIGNED    BY    WEEDON    GROSSMITH 

(Figure  life  size) 


"BILLY'S    BARGAIN" 

back  in  the  large  basket  we  had  had  made  for  it, 
and  when  the  cleaner,  coming  on  the  following 
morning  at  six  o'clock  to  do  the  room,  saw  the 
figure  lying  on  its  back  with  open  mouth  and  out- 
stretched hands  in  the  dim  early  morning  light,  she 
gave  a  scream  and  rushed  out  of  the  theatre,  in- 
forming a  constable  that "  a  man  had  been  murdered 
in  the  theatre,"  —  "a  gentleman  dressed  in  a  check 
suit  and  white  gaiters." 

We  had  a  duplicate  dummy  which  some  other 
firm  had  made  and  it  was  a  failure,  and  I  had  told 
my  stage  manager,  Duncan  Druce,  to  dispose  of  it, 
but  it  occurred  to  him  that  if  anything  happened  to 
the  right  one  we  could  fall  back  on  the  other.  Im- 
agine my  disgust,  when  crossing  from  Dublin  to 
Holyhead,  to  find  this  beastly  half-dressed  dummy, 
without  a  head,  propped  up  against  some  of  my  pri- 
vate luggage.  I  said  to  my  manager,  Maynard, 
"  This  is  a  horrible  sight.  I  told  Duncan  to  get  rid 
of  the  beastly  thing  a  long  time  ago."  "  All  right, 
Mr.  Weedon,"  he  answered,  "we'll  soon  do  that. 
Here,  give  us  a  hand!"  (to  Latimer,  a  six-foot-three 
actor,  who  played  Vanderhausen,  one  of  the 
brigands).  So  they  seized  it  after  a  struggle  with 
Duncan  Druce,  who  tried  all  he  could  to  prevent 
its  going  overboard,  but  a  plop  and  a  splash,  and 
it  was  bobbing  up  and  down  in  the  water.  In 
another  second  we  heard,  "Ting!  Ting!  Tang! 
Tang! "  and  a  shout,  "  Man  overboard! "  and  sev- 
eral sailors  commenced  to  rush  about.  I  left  May- 
nard to  explain  to  the  captain  what  had  really 
happened,  while  I  went  into  the  smoking  saloon 
for  a  quiet  nap. 

299 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

I  have  never  played  in  a  piece  in  which 
so  many  amusing  things  happened.  Miss  Madge 
Titheradge,  who  played  a  wild  Caucasian  girl, 
had  to  practise  firing  large  revolvers  with  both 
hands  without  flinching,  and  was  continually  retir- 
ing into  the  basement  or  back  yard  of  the  theatre 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  practice;  it  was  some 
time  before  she  could  accomplish  it  without  turning 
her  head  away  and  screwing  her  eyes  up. 

No  one  enjoyed  the  fun  of  the  piece  more  than 
that  capital  actor  and  author,  conversationalist,  and 
now  political  orator,  Murray  Carson,  who  played 
the  American  millionaire  Rotterford;  during  our 
provincial  tour  he  would  frequently  take  about  a 
dozen  of  the  men  who  played  the  Brigands  into  a 
bar,  and  if  they  wanted  to  stay  a  little  after  closing 
time  they  would  all  talk  excitedly  in  all  sorts  of 
languages  from  north  of  the  Black  Sea,  sometimes 
suggesting  a  fearful  fight,  and  Murray  Carson 
would  entreat  the  manager  not  to  resort  to  any 
drastic  measures,  and  as  there  was  no  fun  in  being 
shot  or  blown  to  pieces  with  a  bomb,  he  would 
guarantee  to  get  them  out  quietly  in  half  an  hour. 
Every  one  imagined  that  they  were  really  wild 
people  brought  over  from  the  land  where  brigands 
thrive.  The  costumes  were  all  genuine  and  were 
brought  from  the  Caucasus. 

Before  we  opened  with  "  Billy's  Bargain  "  at  the 
Garrick  Theatre  we  finished  our  provincial  tour 
at  the  "  King's,"  Hammersmith;  and  the  proprietor, 
Mr.  Mulholland,  said  to  Maynard,  "  What 's  going 
to  happen  this  time?  The  last  time  Mr.  Weedon 
Grossmith  played  one  of  his  curious  sensational 
300 


"BILLY'S    BARGAIN" 

farces  here,  he  terminated  the  play  with  a  house 
on  fire,  wrecked  by  bands  of  excited  socialists,  and 
the  County  Council  were  on  the  job  here  nightly. 
He  also  had  a  beastly  boiler  working  all  the  time 
to  throw  steam  across  the  stage  to  represent  the 
passing  of  a  locomotive,  and  one  night  the  thing 
nearly  burst."  By  the  way,  this  particular  boiler, 
which  cost  me  twenty-five  pounds,  some  one  stole, 
and  I  have  never  seen  or  heard  of  it  since  —  not 
that  I  particularly  want  to.  The  play  Mulholland 
alluded  to  was  "  The  Cure,"  the  one  I  had  tried  a 
few  times  in  the  Provinces,  and  not  being  satisfied 
with  my  own  performance,  I  took  myself  out  of  the 
part  and  engaged  Graham  Browne,  who  played  it 
admirably.  I  also  engaged  that  wonderful  artist, 
Mrs.  John  Wood,  and  Enid  Spencer  Brunton. 

"  Is  '  Billy's  Bargain  '  a  quiet  piece?  Anyway,  I 
hope  so,"  said  Mulholland. 

"  Well,"  awkwardly  replied  Maynard,  "  I  can't 
say  it 's  quiet.    You  must  judge  for  yourself." 

At  the  end  of  the  Caucasus  scene  a  bomb  is 
thrown,  two  pounds  of  gunpowder,  encased  in  card- 
board, being  ignited  at  the  back  of  the  stage  in  a 
yard.  The  explosion  was  terrific,  and  the  people 
in  the  little  hostelry  opposite  would  rush  out  to 
ascertain  where  the  great  explosion  was.  Some  said 
it  was  the  powder  mills  at  Erith,  others  the  gas 
works  at  St.  Pancras. 

I  told  Maynard  he  had  better  explain  to  the  land- 
lord of  the  Inn  what  it  was,  with  my  apologies. 
He  returned  with  an  answer  from  the  landlord  that 
it  was  no  annoyance  to  him  at  all,  quite  the  re- 
verse, because  after  the  explosion  his  customers 

301 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

rushed  out  to  inquire  what  and  where  it  was,  and 
on  their  return  their  glasses  had  been  removed  and 
they  required  others;  it  also  provided  conversation 
and  excitement  until  closing  time. 

I  am  afraid  it  must  have  been  a  great  nuisance 
when  we  were  playing  at  the  Garrick  Theatre,  for 
when  the  explosion  occurred  the  cab  horses  bolted 
up  the  Charing  Cross  Road.  It  also  interfered 
seriously  with  a  quiet  love  scene  in  a  play  that  Miss 
Gertrude  Elliot  had  just  produced  under  her  man- 
agement at  the  Duke  of  York's,  which  adjoins  the 
Garrick.  The  beautiful  May  Fortescue  played  a 
young  step-mother  admirably  in  "  Billy's  Bargain," 
and  never  have  I  seen  such  an  excellent  and  realistic 
stage  pistol  duel  as  that  between  Vanderhausen  and 
Zampassa,  played  respectively  by  Henry  Latimer 
and  Arthur  Chesney.  I  am  sure  we  should  have  run 
for  many  months,  but  I  had  signed  contracts  to  go 
to  America  in  September  with  R.  C.  Carton's  play, 
"  Mr.  Preedy  and  the  Countess,"  which  I  produced 
at  the  Criterion  Theatre  in  1909,  where  it  ran  for 
nine  months,  Miss  Compton  playing  the  leading 
part  (the  Countess)  in  her  usual  natural  and  digni- 
fied manner.  It 's  a  very  good  thing  for  an  actress 
to  have  a  husband  who  can  write  her  such  good 
parts,  but  it  is  also  a  very  good  thing  for  a  husband 
to  have  a  wife  who  can  play  them  so  successfully  as 
Mrs.  Carton  does.  "  Mr.  Preedy  and  the  Coun- 
tess "  was  one  of  the  plays  that  Curzon  thought  of 
producing  with  me  while  I  was  under  his  manage- 
ment. He  had  produced  "  The  Early  Worm,"  by 
Fred'k  Lonsdale,  at  Wyndham's  Theatre  in  Sep- 
tember, 1908,  with  Alfred  Bishop,  A.  E.  Matthews, 
302 


FRANK   CURZON 

Fanny  Brough,  and  Miss  Beaumont  in  the  cast. 
But  "  The  Early  Worm  "  wriggled  back  to  earth  in 
a  couple  of  months  to  make  room  for  "  Sir  An- 
thony," by  Haddon  Chambers,  which  was  produced 
on  November  28,  1908,  but  the  public  did  n't  come 
as  they  should  have  done,  if  only  to  see  the  excellent 
performance  of  Nina  Boucicault  and  young  Evelyn 
Beerbohm,  to  say  nothing  of  the  blatant  pomposity 
of  Edmund  Maurice  and  his  ostentatious  wife, 
played  by  Suzanne  Sheldon,  who  portrayed  most 
artistically  a  vulgar  couple  living  in  grandeur  at 
Balham.  The  play  might  have  "  picked  up,"  but  I 
rather  fancy  that  Curzon  was  anxious  to  "  strike 
while  the  iron  was  hot,"  and  produce  a  military 
play  on  a  subject  that  at  the  moment  was  very 
much  in  the  public  eye  and  worked  up  by  the  papers. 
So  my  partnership  with  him  terminated  and  Gerald 
du  Maurier  produced  "  The  Englishman's  Home," 
written  by  his  brother,  which  caught  on  like  a  fever 
and  looked  like  running  for  two  years,  but  it  sud- 
denly fizzled  out  after  a  six  months'  run.  I  was  very 
proud  of  the  excellent  performance  given  in  this 
piece  by  my  nephew,  Lawrence  Grossmith,  who  has 
done  even  better  work  since  in  his  very  natural  per- 
formance in  "  The  Glad  Eye."  I  am  as  proud  of 
him  as  an  actor  as  is  his  dear  little  wife,  Coralie 
Blythe. 


303 


CHAPTER  XXV 
Backers 

A"  BACKER,"   theatrically   speaking,   is  a 
gentleman  who  finances  the  production 
of  a  play.    He  is  practically  backing  the 
L  manager  or  the  author,  or  both. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  backers  —  the  commercial 
backer  who  hopes  to  get  fifty  or  one  hundred  per 
cent  for  his  invested  capital,  and  the  backer  who  is 
"  interested  "  in  a  lady  who  is  desirous  of  acting. 
The  latter  has  never  been  of  any  use  to  me,  because 
the  lady  generally  wants  to  play  the  leading  part, 
and,  as  a  rule,  being  quite  incompetent  to  fill 
that  position,  it's  twenty  to  one  she  will  kill  the  play. 

My  backers  have  always  been  men  who  did  not 
cry  if  they  lost  and  who  laughed  if  they  won,  and 
as  I  have  frequently  had  a  hundred  or  two  in  a 
production  myself  and  played  for  a  nominal  salary, 
they  knew  they  were  in  pretty  safe  hands,  and  that 
if  things  were  going  badly  I  should  "  put  up  the 
shutters"  and  cut  the  loss. 

Sometimes  a  backer  will  put  up  all  the  required 
capital  himself,  a  couple  of  thousand  pounds  per- 
haps, or  sometimes  three  or  four  people  will  come 
into  the  syndicate.  You  then  read  them  the  play 
(a  very  trying  ordeal),  and  if  they  like  it  you  "go 
ahead."  It's  a  mistake  to  ask  them  to  dinner,  it 
304 


BACKERS 

looks  as  if  you  were  "  getting  at  them."  Whenever 
a  manager  wants  to  engage  me  for  a  part,  and  at 
the  same  time  asks  me  to  dinner  or  lunch,  I  decline 
the  invitation.  That  dinner  or  lunch  sometimes 
costs  the  guest  a  large  sum  of  money  by  his  good- 
naturedly  accepting  lower  terms  after  a  jolly  dinner 
than  he  would  have  done  otherwise.  Let  business 
be  business  and  keep  the  dinner  for  another  time. 

About  fifteen  years  ago  requiring  some  money  for 
a  theatrical  enterprise,  I  consulted  a  friend  of  mine, 
a  solicitor,  who  said  he  knew  some  clients  who 
would  like  to  put  up  a  thousand  or  fifteen  hundred 
pounds,  so  I  arranged  a  dinner  at  the  Old  House, 
Canonbury,  for  eight  o'clock.  I  was  to  read  the  play 
first  —  in  the  afternoon.  I  had  ordered  a  dinner 
worthy  of  a  backer,  to  be  washed  down  by  Clicquot 
and  followed  by  some  very  good  old  port. 

The  syndicate  assembled  at  five,  and  soon  settled 
down  for  the  reading  of  the  farce.  No  one  laughed 
for  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour,  except  my  solicitor, 
who  had  an  interest  in  making  the  reading  "go," 
but  he  unfortunately  laughed  in  the  wrong  places, 
so  this  mirth  was  of  no  value  to  me.  The  other 
three  gentlemen  were  staring  about  the  room  and 
looking  up  at  the  ceiling,  and  one  of  them  was  play- 
ing an  imaginary  tune  with  his  fingers  on  the  table, 
which  is  always  very  irritating  to  a  reader. 

I  was  plodding  on,  and  acting  all  the  parts, 
as  if  it  were  the  biggest  thing  ever  penned; 
they  still  looked  about  the  room.  I  was  reading 
something  like  the  following:  Enter  Baggies,  he 
catches  his  foot  in  the  mat  and  falls  against  Mrs. 
Kerlake. 

305 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

Mrs.  Kerlake  (arranging  her  bonnet).  "  Kitty, 
who  is  this?" 

Baggies.  "  Baggies,  madam.  My  name  is  Bag- 
gies, upon  the  Grampian  Hills  my  father  feeds  — 
I  mean  my  aunt  —  " 

I  had  an  encouraging  laugh  from  the  solicitor  —  a 
little  overdone  perhaps  —  which  was  drowned  by 
one  of  the  backers  saying,  "  Excuse  my  interrupting 
you  for  a  moment,  but  is  that  an  original  marble 
mantelpiece,  built  with  the  house,  or  a  modern 
addition?" 

"The  original  mantelpiece,"  I  replied,  putting 
down  the  play. 

"  How  very  curious,"  he  answered;  "we  have  one 
very  similar  to  it  at  Brighthorpe." 

"Oh,  really,"  I  said,  "very  interesting.  Well," 
I  continued  reading:  (Baggies)  " — father  feeds 
his  flock — I  mean  my  aunt,  I  should  say." 

Mrs.  Kerlake.  "  Well,  your  father  does  n't  feed 
here,  or  his  flock,  either.    We  're  dining  out." 

Baggies.  "And  I'm  so  hungry"  —  puts  on 
miserable  expression. 

Another  backer  by  this  time  had  walked  to  the 
window;  he  exclaimed,  "  Good  gracious!  surely  that 
is  not  the  old  Canonbury  Tower?  " 

"Oh  yes,  it  is,"  I  answered,  rather  impatiently. 

"  That  is  most  interesting,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  jolly 
glad  I  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  that;  surely  it 
was  at  Canonbury  Tower  that  Oliver  Goldsmith 
wrote  '  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield ' ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  or,  I  think,  to  be  more  correct, 
•  The  Deserted  Village.'  " 

"  We  '11  soon  settle  that  point,"  he  replied,  going 
306 


BACKERS 

to  the  bookcase  and  asking  me  whether  I  had 
Haydon's  dictionary  of  dates. 

I  replied  I  had  not,  and  resumed  reading  the 
farce,  and  finished  the  first  act,  but  I  could  distinctly 
hear  him  whispering  to  the  solicitor  every  few 
minutes,  "  I  'm  sure  it  was  '  The  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field,' "  which  was  very  disconcerting  for  me. 

I  read  the  second  act,  which  produced  a  few 
laughs,  but  one  of  the  backers,  a  youthful  guards- 
man, interrupted  me  by  saying,  "  That 's  rather 
funny,  but  tell  me  how  does  Baggies  pass  off  as 
Major  Shorncliffe?" 

"  Why,"  I  said,  "  by  putting  on  Major  Shorn- 
cliffe's  uniform." 

"  I  understand  that,"  he  said,  rather  irritably, 
"but  I 'm  asking  you,  how  did  he  get  the  uniform? 
That's  my  point." 

My  solicitor  friend,  coming  to  my  rescue,  said 
that  could  easily  be  managed. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said,  more  irritably  than  ever, 
"  I  'm  addressing  Mr.  Grossmith.  How  does  he  get 
the  uniform?" 

"Well,"  I  stammered,  "it  doesn't  say.  That's 
done  off  the  stage;  many  things  are  done  off  the 
stage,  you  know." 

"  But  excuse  me,  I  know  what  I  'm  talking  about," 
persisted  the  military  backer. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "perhaps  he  got  the  uniform 
from  the  Major's  servant." 

"That's  quite  out  of  the  question,"  he  retorted. 
"  The  man  would  n't  be  such  a  cad  as  to  lend 
himself  to  such  a  rotten  trick.  No  soldier  servant 
could   be   such    a   bounder."     I    tried    to   soothe 

307 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

him  down  by  saying  I  would  see  the  author  and 
have  it  cleared  up.  "By  George,  it'll  have  to  be 
cleared  up,  rather,"  he  said,  very  pugnaciously. 
"It's  a  disgusting  idea,  I  should  like  to  catch  my 
man  lending  my  things  to  a  bounder.    What?  " 

During  the  third  act  one  backer  was  dozing,  and 
my  solicitor  kept  nudging  him,  saying,  "  Listen  to 
this;  the  best  part  is  coming."  I  rattled  on,  to  keep 
things  going  as  well  as  I  could,  my  voice  at  times 
almost  leaving  rne.  I  had  only  seven  or  eight  more 
pages  when  there  was  a  scratch  at  the  door,  I  feared 
the  worst. 

Before  I  could  stop  him  the  military  backer  had 
opened  the  door,  and  in  rushed  at  full  speed  my 
beautiful  big  white  fox  terrier,  who  had  just  been 
washed  by  my  housekeeper  and  was  looking  at  his 
best.  He  tore  round  the  room  half  a  dozen  times 
at  the  rate  of  twenty  miles  an  hour,  and  then  re- 
peated the  movement  in  the  reverse  direction  —  a 
little  habit  of  his  —  jumped  on  a  chair,  then  on 
the  couch,  and  barked  loudly.  I  tried  to  get  him 
out,  but  the  backers  took  a  great  fancy  to  him;  they 
seemed  to  like  him  better  than  the  play,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  make^a  great  fuss  of  him  and  rolled  up 
paper  balls  for  him  to  run  after.  I  protested,  but 
they  said,  "We  can  hear  all  you're  saying,  Mr. 
Grossmith.  Don't  let  him  disturb  you."  "  Did  you 
get  him  at  Cruft's  Dog  Show?"  one  asked. 

"No,"  I  said  rather  sharply,  "  a  friend  of  mine, 
Percy  Spooner,  a  Vet.,  got  him  for  me,  one  of  the 
best  judges." 

"  That 's  funny,"  said  the  military  backer.     "  I 
met  Spooner  last  night." 
308 


BACKERS 

"Oh,  really  —  well,  to  resume  the  play.  Baggies 
apologises  to  the  Major,  who  swears  he'll  be  the 
best  man  at  the  wedding.  At  the  second  curtain 
Baggies  goes  to  embrace  Kitty,  the  Major  gets  in 
the  way  and  he  embraces  the  Major." 

At  that  moment  the  gong  sounded  for  dinner, 
and  later  on,  when  my  servant  Smith  was  un- 
corking a  third  bottle  of  Clicquot,  I  ventured  to  ask 
them  what  they  thought  of  the  play. 

The  first  man  said,  "  Candidly,  I  don't  like  it." 

The  second  said,  "  I  know  very  little  about 
theatrical  investments,  and  honestly  I  don't  feel 
justified  in  selling  out  £500  worth  of  Canadian 
Pacific  Stock,  with  the  dim  prospect  of  possibly 
getting  a  bigger  dividend.    I  don't  really." 

The  third  backer  rapidly  said,  "  I  'm  of  the  same 
opinion,  but  I  tell  you  what  I  will  do.  To-morrow 
I  'm  going  to  trot  round  to  an  old  pal  of  mine  in 
Gray's  Inn,  and  I  '11  let  you  know  before  one  o'clock 
whether  it  was  'The  Vicar  of  Wakefield'  or  'The 
Deserted  Village '  that  Goldsmith  wrote  in  the 
Tower  over  the  way!  " 

On  another  occasion  I  was  about  to  produce  a 
version  of  "Jack  Sheppard,"  written  by  the  late 
Joseph  Hatton,  to  which  I  have  already  referred. 
I  had  already  done  it  on  trial  at  the  Pavilion 
Theatre,  Whitechapel,  where  it  was  very  successful, 
but  in  the  West  it  would  have  to  be  produced  on 
a  far  bigger  scale  and  required  a  large  capital. 

It  was  a  very  big  production,  and  we  wanted  at 
least  five  thousand  pounds.  One  day,  quite  by 
chance,  I  was  introduced  to  a  man  from  Australia, 
who  apparently  owned  gold  mines  by  the  dozen, 

309 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

and  judging  by  the  way  he  was  flinging  that  valuable 
metal  about  he  had  evidently  dug  out  a  good 
quantity.  He  jumped  at  the  idea  of  backing  a 
theatrical  enterprise,  he  said  he  would  "just  love 
it,"  would  five  thousand  be  enough?  If  not,  ten 
thousand  would  suit  him  just  as  well.  He  didn't 
want  anyone  in  it  besides  himself,  he  would  put 
up  the  whole  of  the  capital  required.  He  said  he 
hardly  knew  a  soul  in  London,  this  being  his  first 
visit  to  the  old  country,  and  it  would  probably  be 
the  means  of  his  making  some  jolly  friends. 

I  at  once  asked  him  to  the  Old  House  to  dinner, 
I  also  asked  eight  or  ten  influential  friends  to  meet 
him. 

Again  the  best  wine  I  possessed  was  got  out  for 
the  occasion,  but  my  Australian  friend  took  nothing 
stronger  than  water.  I  did  n't  discuss  business  with 
him  that  evening,  I  wanted  it  to  be  a  purely  social 
affair,  and  my  Gold  King  was  a  great  attraction  to 
my  other  guests.  I  overheard  him  talking  confiden- 
tially to  several  of  my  male  friends,  who  were  sit- 
ting round  him  in  a  circle,  eagerly  listening  to 
every  word  he  uttered. 

He  was  saying,  "  In  Kenfortic  the  earth  's  full  of 
gold,  all  we  want  is  a  few  men  with  a  few  thousand 
pounds  to  pay  for  the  labour,  for  every  hundred 
pounds  put  up  it 's  a  fifty  per  cent  dividend,  sure, 
the  second  year,  and  twenty-five  the  first.  You  see  I 
can't  capitalize  myself,  I  've  got  £25,000  out  in  the 
other  holes;  that's  why  I'm  here,  to  get  a  few 
thousand  and  rush  back.  I  must  get  back  at  once, 
for  while  I  'm  here  I  'm  being  robbed  on  an  average 
of  a  thousand  a  month." 
310 


BACKERS 

Then  I  could  hear  my  friends  all  talking  excitedly 
together;  they  were  evidently  bitten.  They  were 
men  who  rarely  gamble  and  have  their  money  in- 
vested in  consols,  steady  respectable  people.  He 
proceeded  to  show  them  a  sample  nugget.    Then  I 

heard  him  saying,  "  I  don't  care  a  d who  has  the 

shares.  It 's  '  first  come  first  served  '  with  me,  and 
Mr.  Grossmith's  friends  shall  have  the  first  cut  in. 
I  like  the  little  chap,  I  Ve  taken  a  fancy  to  him." 
There  was  a  lot  more  talk,  and  more  wine  for  my 
guests,  but  not  for  the  Gold  King;  he  never  touched 
a  drop,  and  left  us  dead  sober  as  he  came,  but  not  be- 
fore he  had  succeeded  in  lumbering  a  large  quantity 
of  more  or  less  worthless  shares  on  my  friends,  in- 
cluding my  old  friend  Willie  Stone.  He  got  all  the 
capital  he  required  and  returned  to  his  gold  fields. 
I  need  hardly  say  he  didn't  put  up  a  penny  for 
"JackSheppard." 

A  well-known  proprietor  of  a  huge  Bucketshop 
once  told  me  that  if  at  any  time  I  got  hold  of  a 
good  farce  he  would  like  to  finance  it.  There  was 
no  necessity  for  me  to  tell  him  how  difficult  it  was 
to  find  a  good  farce,  he  knew  that  as  well  as  I  did. 
However,  one  day  I  told  him  I  had  got  something 
from  the  French,  characteristic  of  most  French 
farces,  with  little  or  no  good  dialogue,  but  several 
remarkable  situations. 

On  the  following  Sunday  he  asked  my  wife  and 
myself  to  lunch  to  "  read  a  play."  We  lunched  at 
two  o'clock,  I  thought  the  meal  would  never  termi- 
nate; at  four  o'clock  I  said,  "  Hadn't  I  better  start 
on  the  first  act?" 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  we  are  going  on  the  coach 

3ii 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

to  Richmond  first,"  and  a  very  exciting  expedition 
it  was.  He  was  a  good  whip,  but  a  bit  too  daring 
for  me.  On  more  than  one  occasion  the  leaders, 
who  were  hunters,  threatened  to  take  the  fences, 
and  on  entering  Richmond  Park  he  let  them  have 
a  good  gallop,  and  I  found  myself  looking  out  for 
a  convenient  place  for  a  jump  should  it  be  necessary. 
I  had  lunched  with  him  ostensibly  for  the  purpose 
of  reading  a  play,  not  to  undergo  what  were  to  me 
the  agonies  and  tortures  of  a  steeplechase.  I  had 
to  endure  two  hours  and  a  half  of  this  misery,  and 
I  was  not  even  insured  against  accidents  then,  and 
the  only  happy  moment  for  me  was  on  the  return 
journey,  when  we  turned  the  corner  near  Albert 
Gate  and  entered  the  quiet  square  where  he  lived. 

My  spirits  revived  when  we  got  back  into  his 
library.    "Shall  I  start  on  the  first  act?"  I  asked. 

"Not  yet,"  he  said,  "we're  going  to  dine  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,"  and,  sure  enough,  about  eight 
o'clock  we  were  sitting  down  to  another  long 
repast  —  a  dozen  courses,  washed  down  with  more 
champagne.  I  ate  so  much  that  day  that  food  was 
repugnant  to  me  for  several  days  afterwards.  At 
ten  o'clock,  after  the  last  glass  of  port,  my  host  put 
himself  into  a  comfortable  armchair,  having  lighted 
an  enormous  cigar,  and  said,  "Fire  away."  So  I 
began  to  read  the  first  act,  and  half-way  through  it 
I  saw  that  he  was  slumbering.  I  asked  him  whether 
he  could  follow  it. 

"  Every  word,"  he  replied,  "  and  I  don't  want  to 
hear  any  more.  What  are  the  second  and  third 
acts  about?  "  I  told  him  briefly.  "  No  good,"  he 
said,  "there's  not  a  shilling  in  it,  but  the  ideas  are 
312 


BACKERS 

good,  and  I  think  I  can  bring  some  of  it  into  a  musi- 
cal comedy  which  half  a  dozen  men  are  writing  for 
me,  and  which  I  am  financing;  but  as  a  farce,  no 
good";  and  he  was  quite  right,  somebody  else  pro- 
duced it  and  it  was  a  failure  and  they  lost  heavily. 

After  the  run  of  "The  Night  of  the  Party"  at 
the  old  Avenue  Theatre  —  which  was  knocked 
down  by  the  accident  at  Charing  Cross  Railway 
Station  and  is  now  the  newly  built  Playhouse  —  I 
had  a  few  months'  lease  to  run  out  and  we  had  n't  got 
a  tenant,  but  my  nephew,  young  George  Grossmith, 
had  got  a  children's  play  which  he  was  going  to 
produce,  and  said  his  syndicate  would  take  the 
theatre  if  I  would  "make  things  light"  in  the 
matter  of  rent,  which  I  agreed  to  do,  namely,  that 
they  were  to  rent  the  theatre  for  less  than  half  what 
I  was  paying,  but  if  the  business  was  good  the  rent 
would  increase  in  proportion. 

So  I  had  a  meeting  with  his  syndicate  at  the 
theatre.  At  their  request  I  took  the  chair,  and  the 
four  gentlemen  who  composed  the  syndicate  pro- 
ceeded to  ask  me  numerous  questions.  The  first 
financier  asked  me  whether  I  had  read  the  little 
piece.  I  replied  I  had  not.  "  That  does  n't  matter," 
he  answered;  "it's  a  winner."  I  said  I  was 
delighted  to  hear  it. 

No.  2  then  rose  and  made  a  short  speech,  in  which 
he  announced  that  he,  as  a  member  of  the  syndicate, 
organized  for  the  purpose  of  producing  and  run- 
ning this  excellent  little  musical  piece,  was  desirous 
that  they  should  secure,  if  possible,  the  best  theatre 
in  London  and  on  the  best  possible  terms,  and  the 
question  now  arose  whether  the  Avenue  was  the  best 

3i3 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

theatre.  I  told  them  —  naturally  —  I  thought  it 
was,  I  had  just  played  there.  He  continued,  "  When 
I  say  the  best  theatre,  I  mean  the  one  that  holds  the 
most  money."  I  said  it  did  not  hold  so  much  as 
Drury  Lane  or  Covent  Garden,  but  I  thought 
those  theatres,  even  if  they  were  available,  were  too 
large  for  a  small  entertainment  with  a  very  limited 
capital,  and  they  were  bad  to  "  paper." 

The  third  gentleman  said  the  capital  was  small, 
but  if  the  play  was  a  success  the  capital  could  be 
increased.  I  reminded  them  that  if  the  play  was 
a  success  they  would  n't  want  to  increase  the  capital. 

"  That 's  true,"  said  No.  i,  as  if  my  remark  were 
a  brilliant  revelation. 

"Now,  Mr.  Weedon  Grossmith,  how  much 
money  does  the  Avenue  hold?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  answered;  "when  I  took  the 
theatre  I  asked  the  box  office  keeper  how  much  it 
held,  and  he  said  he  didn't  know  because  it  had 
never  been  full.  But,  roughly  speaking,  you  could 
get  in  £200  a  performance  comfortably." 

The  members  of  the  syndicate  then  proceeded  to 
make  calculations;  they  were  only  going  to  do  after- 
noon performances,  so  they  reckoned  that  they  could 
take  in  six  performances,  £  1 200.  They  regarded  this 
rather  seriously,  as  the  Prince  of  Wales'  Theatre, 
which  they  thought  they  might  possibly  get  instead 
of  the  Avenue,  held  £300,  therefore  they  would  be 
losing  £600  a  week  if  they  took  the  Avenue. 

"That's  true,"  I  said.  "Taking  into  considera- 
tion that  your  expenses  are  so  small,  rent,  salaries, 
printing,  advertising,  etc.,  in  fact,  the  whole  amount 
not  coming  to  more  than  £400  a  week,  allowed  a 
3i4 


BACKERS 

fine  profit.  Why,"  I  said,  "  suppose  you  took  only 
£800  a  week,  that  would  leave  a  profit  of  £400, 
which  is  not  so  bad." 

Then  replied  No.  2  with  great  energy,  "  Gentle- 
men, if  the  piece  is  a  success,  which  I  have  myself 
no  doubt  about,  why  not  play  it  in  the  evenings  as 
well  as  the  afternoons?  And  if  the  theatre  were  full 
at  every  performance  we  should  be  taking  £2400  a 
week,  and  as  our  total  expenses,  including  the  eve- 
ning performances,  would  n't  exceed  £500  a  week, 
we  should  be  dividing  up  £1900!" 

"Just  so,"  ejaculated  No.  1  rather  suddenly, 
"then,  if  we  had  the  '  Prince  of  Wales,'  you  could 
put  a  hundred  on  to  each  performance,  making  it 
£3600  on  the  week." 

No.  3  squashed  this  at  once  by  saying  the  '  Prince 
of  Wales',  which  was  enjoying  a  big  success  with 
their  present  play,  was  available  only  for  four  or 
five  matinees  a  week. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  No.  1,  "  let 's  wipe  the 
'  Prince  of  Wales '  off  the  slate.  Now,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  we  know  what  kind  of  a  dividend  we  can 
pay  if  the  play  is  a  success,  but  we  are  bound  to  con- 
sider the  other  side.  Suppose,  I  only  say  suppose,  by 
some  unlooked-for  misfortune  it  should  not  be  a 
success,  then  what  sort  of  a  dividend  should  we  pay? 
Something,  perhaps,  in  the  nature  of  a  gilt-edged 
security,  three  per  cent  perhaps.  Anyway,  I  don't 
see  how  we  could  lose!  " 

"What,  the  capital?"  said  No.  2.  "I  should 
hope  not;  there  is  no  chance  of  that,  surely?  What 
do  you  say,  Mr.  Grossmith?" 

I  had  listened  to  all  their  cheerful  views  for  some 

3i5 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

time,  and  was  the  last  person  to  put  a  damper  on 
their  hopes,  but  from  my  rather  large  experience  of 
theatrical  speculations,  and  knowing  how  exceed- 
ingly risky  they  are,  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  undeceive 
them,  and  let  them  have  the  unvarnished  truth,  by 
telling  them  that  there  was  every  chance  of  their 
losing  their  capital  if  the  enterprise  failed  to  attract 
the  public. 

"What,  the  entire  lot?"  said  No.  i. 

"  Every  penny,"  I  answered,  "  but  what  I  should 
advise  you  to  do  is,  if  the  business  is  rocky,  to  adopt 
my  methods,  and  put  up  the  shutters  at  once,  and 
save  something  from  the  wreck." 

This  caused  general  depression  all  round;  the 
thought  of  a  small  dividend  was  bad  enough,  but 
the  possibility  of  losing  the  entire  capital  was  un- 
thinkable. 

After  a  long  pause  No.  i  said,  "  But  how  can  we 
lose?  Suppose  we  only  play  the  six  matinees  and 
no  evening  performances,  and  our  total  expendi- 
ture does  not  exceed  £400  a  week;  suppose  the 
business  is  bad,  and  we  play  to  rotten  houses  and 
the  theatre  is  only  half  full;  say  the  business  is  so 
bad  that  the  theatre  is  two-thirds  empty  and  we 
were  only  playing  to  £70  a  performance,  then  we 
should  make  over  four  hundred  a  week,  gentlemen, 
and  although  we  should  make  no  profit  we  certainly 
should  n't  lose." 

*  "That's  true,"  I  said,  "but  you  might  play  to 
considerably  under  £70  a  performance;  you  might 
not  play  to  half  that  amount  and  less  even  than  that." 

This  sent  their  spirits  down  considerably,  when 
just  at  that  moment  my  business  manager,  Mr. 
316 


BACKERS 

Edward  Michael,  entered  the  room,  and  they  ral- 
lied round  him  for  consolation. 

"Now,  Mr.  Michael,  you've  just  come  in  time. 
Mr.  Weedon  Grossmith  has  been  depressing  us  a 
bit,  we  want  your  views.  We  know  what  the  house 
holds  and  all  we  can  take,  but  what 's  the  least  we 
can  take  if  the  piece  is  not  a  i  great  go  '  "  ? 

"  The  least?  "  answered  Michael.  "  If  the  play 
is  a  fizzle  you  won't  play  to  more  than  <£io  a  per- 
formance!" 

"What?"  shrieked  No.  i  backer,  "Impossible!" 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  Michael,  "  believe  me,  if  the 
thing  does  n't  catch  on  you  won't  take  £5  a  perform- 
ance, perhaps  not  five  shillings." 

They  all  exclaimed  at  the  same  time, 
"What!  !  !" 

"  Indeed,"  said  Michael  "  a  famous  actor  in  this 
very  theatre  told  me  himself  that  one  night  they 
only  took  eleven  shillings  1 " 

The  syndicate  was  absolutely  speechless.  I  had 
another  appointment  and  had  to  leave  them,  but 
I  have  it  from  Michael  that  this  is  what  followed. 
They  were  in  the  midst  of  their  gloom  when  George 
Junior  arrived  on  the  scene,  and  making  an  entrance 
in  his  best  light-comedy  manner,  dressed  in  the 
pink  of  fashion,  or  rather  six  months  ahead  of  it, 
laughing  and  slapping  his  hands  together,  said, 
"  Sorry  I  'm  late.  'Ullo,  what 's  the  matter  here, 
anyone  ill?    Send  for  a  Doc!  " 

The  syndicate  proceeded  to  relate  the  gloomy 
outlook  Michael  and  myself  had  put  before  them 
in  case  of  failure. 

"Oh,  is  that  all?"  responded  George  Junior. 

3i7 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

"You  mustn't  mind  what  my  uncle  says.  That's 
his  dry  humour;  he  was  pulling  your  leg.  As  for 
dear  old  Jonah  man  Michael,  he's  a  trouble-seeker, 
bless  him.  You  can  take  it  from  me,  in  an  enter- 
prise of  this  sort  there's  no  such  word  as  failure. 
I  don't  know  how  to  spell  it." 

11  Ah!  that's  what  we  want  to  hear,"  the  syndicate 
unanimously  responded. 

"By  the  way,"  said  George  Junior,  "what  are 
we  drinking?    Give  it  a  name  and  I  '11  shout." 

"  Never  on  your  life,"  said  No  i.    "  This  is  mine." 

"All  right,  let  it  rest  at  that,"  said  George  Junior, 
and  the  commissionaire  was  sent  out  for  a  couple 
of  bottles  of  champagne,  "  And  '  Pom '  for  choice! " 
shouted  George  Junior  down  the  stairs. 

They  were  soon  drinking  the  effervescing  straw- 
coloured  beverage  out  of  tumblers,  and  under  the 
combined  influence  of  George  Junior  and  the 
golden  mixture  they  were  restored  to  their  original 
sanguine  frame  of  mind,  and  the  popular  Gaiety 
favourite  terminated  his  hopeful  address  by  saying, 
"We  shall  probably  play  to  £150  or  £200  a  per- 
formance, and  if  we  can't  get  'em  all  into  the 
Avenue,  dash  it,  we'll  take  another  blooming 
theatre  and  engage  another  company."  The  syndi- 
cate shook  hands  with  each  other  and  considered 
their  fortunes  made.  Michael  overheard  No.  2  say 
to  No.  3,  "  Why,  we  shall  be  getting  money  for 
nothing."  I  am  sorry  to  say  the  piece  was  not  a 
financial  success.    The  run  lasted  three  weeks! 

One  very  cheerful  backer  I  had  was  Mr.  Frank 
Rowley,  an  accountant,  who  invited  my  manager, 
Maynard,  and  myself  to  lunch  at  Swanage,  where 
3i8 


BACKERS 

he  was  staying  at  an  hotel.  I  was  playing  that  week 
at  Bournemouth,  so  it  was  quite  easy  to  get  there. 
We  had  a  pleasant  lunch  with  Rowley  and  his  wife, 
not  a  word  of  business  being  mentioned.  I  noticed 
my  manager  was  getting  fidgety,  being  eager  to 
begin  a  business  conversation,  as  we  had  to  return 
to  Bournemouth  by  an  early  train,  and  several  times 
he  produced  some  notes  from  his  pockets  saying, 
"The  advance  printing  ought  not  to  be  a  large  item 
because  we  have  already  a  —  " 

"  Have  some  more  of  this  salmon,"  chipped  in 
Rowley,  "it's  not  half  bad."  Maynard  continued 
eating  for  a  few  minutes,  while  I  was  drawing  Mrs. 
Rowley's  attention  to  the  beautiful  effect  of  the  sun 
on  the  sea,  but  I  couldn't  help  hearing  Maynard 
break  out  again  into  business.  "We  have  already 
about  five  hundred  twelve-sheet  posters  of  David 
Allen's,  but  shall  want  some  day-bills  and  —  " 

"  Do  you  like  that  Moselle  ?  "  said  our  host ;  "  well, 
we  '11  have  some  more." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Maynard.  "  The  dresses  may  run 
into  money,  but  I  shall  endeavour  to — " 

"  Stow  business,"  said  our  host  of  figures.  "  We  '11 
settle  all  that  on  the  beach  after  lunch  " ;  and  when 
that  meal  was  over,  we  strolled  down  some  wooden 
steps  from  trie  hotel,  running  the  last  hundred  yards 
down  a  sandy  embankment.  Out  came  Maynard's 
notes  again,  and  he  said,  "We  have  fortunately  got 
the  refusal  of  the  Garrick  Theatre  on  sharing  terms. 
Mr.  Bourchier  is  a  great  friend  of  Mr.  Weedon's, 
and  he  is  desirous  that  he  should  come  to  the  Gar- 
rick on  very  easy  terms,  so  I  should  like  —  " 

"One  minute,"  said  Rowley.    "Can  you  jump? 

3i9 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

I  '11  bet  you  sixpence  I  '11  clear  that  stream  without 
wetting  the  heels  of  my  boots."  He  proceeded  to 
do  so,  followed  by  Maynard,  who  splashed  himself 
all  over.    I  walked  round  it. 

"  So,"  continued  Maynard,  "  Mr.  Bourchier,  who 
is  a  hard  nut  to  crack  in  an  ordinary  way,  is  willing 
to  close  but  he  must  know  by  —  " 

"Can  you  run?"  said  Rowley,  who  reminded  me 
of  a  boy  released  from  school,  he  was  so  full  of 
energy.    "  Sixpence  I  get  to  that  post  before  you  do." 

"  Right,"  said  Maynard,  putting  his  notes  quickly 
into  his  pocket.  "  One,  two,  three,  off,"  and  I  saw 
them  both  tearing  along  for  their  lives,  their  hats 
flying  off  at  once.  Rowley  got  there  first,  but  I 
rather  fancy  Maynard  was  "slacking"  on  purpose 
to  be  on  the  best  of  terms  with  the  financier. 

"We  ought  to  settle  for  the  Garrick,"  said 
Rowley,  —  out  of  breath. 

"  Right,"  said  Maynard.  "  Though  there  are  a 
great  many  people  in  the  cast,  it  will  not  be  a  very 
expensive  production  and  I  propose  that  you  give 
me  a  cheque  —  " 

"Wait,"  said  Rowley,  "I'll  bet  either  of  you 
sixpence  that  I  '11  hit  that  post  out  at  sea  before 
either  you  or  Grossmith." 

I  joined  in  this  interlude,  and  we  all  threw  stones 
at  a  post  a  long  way  off  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Then  looking  at  my  watch,  I  found  we  must  be 
making  our  way  to  the  station.  Rowley  and  May- 
nard jumped  over  posts  as  they  went,  and  just  before 
the  train  steamed  in,  Rowley  said,  "  I  wish  you 
could  have  stayed  longer.  It's  been  very  jolly. 
How  much  capital  do  you  want?"  And  on 
320 


BACKERS 

Maynard  replying,  Rowley  said,  "  Right,  I  '11  send 
you  a  cheque  whenever  you  want  it" — which  he 
did. 

I  had  written  a  play  called  "  The  London  Girl," 
and  had  specially  written  the  chief  part  for  a  clever 
young  actress  whom  I  had  in  view,  and  arranged  a 
meeting  at  my  house  to  read  it  to  her;  but  she  only 
wanted  to  hear  the  part,  not  the  play,  and  didn't 
seem  to  understand  it.  Being  very  busy  myself 
rehearsing,  managing,  and  producing,  I  put  the 
play  aside  and  forgot  all  about  it,  but  being  asked 
one  day  if  I  had  got  anything  that  could  be  turned 
into  a  musical  play  by  Bucalossi  senior  —  the  com- 
poser, who  has  written  so  many  popular  waltzes  — 
I  read  him  "The  London  Girl,"  and  he  liked  the 
idea  so  much  that  I  asked  Kinsey  Peile  to  write 
some  lyrics,  which  Bucalossi  set  to  some  of  the  most 
catchy  and  pretty  music  I  have  ever  heard.  He 
was  a  man  then  of  advanced  years  and  was  anxious 
to  make,  as  he  said,  " a  final  shot"  at  the  end  of  his 
career,  and  he  put  out  an  enormous  amount  of 
energy,  and  there  was  no  one  more  interested  in 
this  enterprise  than  his  son,  Brigata  Bucalossi,  who 
was  determined  to  find  capital  and  get  the  play 
produced,  and  at  length  he  informed  us  that  he  had 
succeeded.  In  the  words  of  the  penny  novelette,  "at 
last  the  wished-for  day  arrived,"  and  the  composer, 
the  lyricist,  and  myself  were  asked  to  read,  play 
and  sing  our  respective  gems  at  the  house  of  a  lady 
in  Nevern  Square,  Earl's  Court.  I  read  the  play, 
Kinsey  Peile  sang  the  lyrics  and  danced  a  little, 
while  Bucalossi  played  vigorously  to  an  audience  of 
about  half  a  dozen  people.    They  were  very  enthusi- 

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FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

astic.  The  book  and  lyrics  were  "  wonderful  " —  so 
they  said  —  never  had  they  heard  such  "  fine  and 
catchy  music,"  they,  in  fact,  wished  for  encores.  This 
enthusiasm  was  new  to  me,  for,  as  a  rule,  when 
backers  like  a  thing  they  don't  show  their  admira- 
tion—  it  would  be  a  bad  business  policy  to  do  so. 
Not  so  on  this  occasion,  however;  they  raved  and 
applauded.  "  What  do  you  think  of  that?  "  I  ex- 
claimed to  the  composer.  With  tears  in  his  eyes  he 
said,  "It's  a  'cert.'"  There  was  only  one  person 
who  was  not  so  enthusiastic,  and  that  was  a  gentle- 
man who  had  arrived  late  from  Brighton.  How- 
ever, we  did  n't  notice  him  and  regarded  him  rather 
as  a  wet  blanket.  We  had  drinks  and  smokes  and 
thanked  our  hostess  profusely.  Kinsey  Peile  and 
I  jumped  into  a  cab,  and  as  we  drove  along  con- 
gratulated ourselves  and  each  other  on  the  success 
we  had  achieved.  "When  shall  we  open?"  said 
Peile.  "I  don't  know,"  I  replied.  "I  hope  we 
are  not  over-capitalized,  because  that  so  minimises 
the  profits."  "  I  hope,"  Peile  said,  "  we  shall  get 
the  right  theatre.  "  We  can  get  any  theatre,"  I 
answered.  On  the  following  day  we  learned  that 
the  people  who  were  so  enthusiastic  were  people 
who  were  inducing  capital,  and  the  dismal  gentle- 
man who  came  late  was  the  only  person  ready  to 
put  up  a  hundred  or  two.  "It  was  not  his  line  of 
country,"  he  said,  "but  his  friend  who  was  ready 
for  a  couple  of  thousand  was  not  well  and  had  gone 
abroad  for  six  months,  so  that  we  mustn't  count 
on  him."    Such  is  life!! 


322 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

Country  Visits.    The  Garrick  Club.    George 
Grossmith.    Leslie  Ward's  Evening  Dress 

IN  the  summer  of  1904  my  wife  and  I  were 
the  guests  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sam  Heilbut  at 
their  country  home,  The  Lodge,  Holyport  — 
a  most  up-to-date  "  Model  Country  Cottage  " 

—  with  a  magnificent  "  Real  Tennis "  court  and 
big  swimming  bath.  The  party  included  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Percy  Macquoid,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Angeli,  Dr. 
Orwin,  W.  L.  Courtney,  Sir  Douglas  Straight,  and 
last,  but  by  no  means  least,  Caruso,  the  world- 
famous  singer,  who  was  visiting  an  English  country 
house  for  the  first  time  —  and  he  could  not  possibly 
have  chosen  a  better  example. 

Caruso  in  1904  was  extremely  —  what  shall  I  say? 

—  unsophisticated,  he  was  like  a  child  —  in  some 
ways.  He  was  taken  for  a  motor  drive  and  insisted 
on  holding  the  hand  of  the  prettiest  woman  in  the  car 
all  the  time.  He  sang  softly  to  himself  at  lunch, 
and  then  he  heard  his  own  voice  on  Sam  Heilbut's 
enormous  gramaphone;  it  did  not  seem  altogether  to 
please  him,  so  later  he  sang  to  us  himself  —  an  un- 
forgettable event,  his  exquisite  voice  making  even 
the  unmusical  amongst  us  (if  there  were  any)  feel 
a  lump  in  his  throat.  Caruso  was  obliged  to  return 
to  town  on  the  Sunday  night.     At  that  time  his 

323 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

knowledge  of  the  English  language  was  somewhat 
limited,  and  on  the  return  journe /  he  was  taken  in 
charge  by  Mrs.  Macquoid,  but  she  told  me  after- 
wards that  he  was  no  trouble,  as  he  went  to  sleep 
like  a  tired  child  directly  the  train  started.  Caruso 
was  photographed  on  this  occasion  with  an  admir- 
ing crowd  of  ladies  surrounding  him.  Since  that 
time  he  has  become  even  more  widely  known! 
During  the  afternoon  he  did  a  five-minute  sketch 
of  me,  and  I  did  one  of  him,  which  latter  Mrs. 
Heilbut,  I  believe,  still  has. 

Sam  Heilbut  is  a  famous  raconteur,  with  a  truly 
marvellous  memory.  He  is  a  living  encyclopaedia 
of  all  theatrical  events,  names  and  dates,  and  I  think 
the  only  man  who  ever  tried  to  cultivate  truffles  in 
England  in  their  native  soil,  which  he  imported 
for  the  purpose. 

No  reminiscences  of  mine  would  be  complete 
without  more  than  a  passing  reference  to  my  old 
friend  and  brother  artist,  Percy  Macquoid,  and  his 
wife,  known  to  their  intimates  as  "  Theresa  and 
Percy,"  both  connoisseurs  in  all  branches  of  Art, 
both  having  the  same  cultured  tastes,  which,  com- 
bined with  long  study  of  the  subject,  have  enabled 
them  to  surround  themselves,  both  at  the  famous 
Yellow  House  and  in  their  "gem"  of  a  country 
abode  in  Sussex,  with  beautiful  furniture,  tapestry, 
and,  in  fact,  all  those  lovely  and  desirable  things 
which  are  a  perpetual  delight  to  their  many  friends. 
My  friendship  with  Percy  Macquoid  began  when 
we  were  both  students  at  the  R.  A.,  and  during  the 
last  sixteen  years  many  are  the  cheery  and  delightful 
days  I  have  spent  in  his  society,  and  many  are  the 
324 


A    FIVE    MINUTES     SKETCH    OK    WEEDON    GROSSMITH    BY    CAUlbU 


HERTFORD    CASTLE 

pleasant  dinners  I  have  enjoyed  at  the  Yellow 
House.  I  think  the  most  enjoyable  and  successful 
Christmas  Days  I  can  recall  have  been  those  spent  in 
company  with  my  family  of  two  at  Staplefield 
Grange,  where  a  small  but  select  party  have  enjoyed 
the  perfection  of  hospitality,  combined  with  that  rare 
but  delightful  feeling  that  you  are  perfectly  at  home 
in  your  friend's  house,  and  can  do  just  as  you  like, 
when  you  like.  I  know  no  greater  proof  of  real  solid 
friendship  than  to  be  placed  on  this  footing. 

Amongst  his  minor  accomplishments  Percy  Mac- 
quoid  numbers  that  of  being  a  fine  judge  of  wine, 
and  has  a  genius  for  mixing  rum  punch,  to  which 
I  can  testify,  and  so  can  another  mutual  friend, 
Sir  Herbert  Beerbohm  Tree,  as  we  have  consumed 
it  together  on  several  cheery  New  Year's  night  gath- 
erings at  the  Yellow  House.  I  have  just  been  re- 
sponsible for  the  enlarging  of  a  famous  pond  at 
Staplefield,  having  enthused  Percy  and  Theresa 
with  my  craze  for  pondmaking,  fountains,  fishing, 
and  kindred  recreations.  The  new  pond  is  weigh- 
ing rather  heavily  on  my  mind.  I  trust  it  will  prove 
a  successful  innovation,  as  I  have  almost  a  proprie- 
torial feeling  with  regard  to  the  "  fishing  rights." 

Another  kind  of  jolly  go-as-you-please  visit  was 
always  at  Mrs.  Lowe's,  who  rented  Hertford  Castle, 
Hertford  —  now  presented  to  the  town  by  the  Mar- 
quis of  Salisbury.  It  was  supposed  to  be  haunted. 
Mrs.  Lowe's  great  endeavour  is  always  to  make  her 
friends  happy,  and  where  could  a  better  place  be 
found  for  croquet,  tennis,  and  bowls  than  on  the  old 
Tilting  Ground,  surrounded  with  high  walls  six 
or  seven  feet  thick,  "  far  from  the  madding  crowd," 

325 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

though  in  the  town,  and  only  twenty-five  miles  from 
London?  Especially  convenient  for  the  actor  man, 
who  after  his  performance  could  easily  catch  the 
last  train  at  twelve  o'clock  and  be  in  the  Castle 
at  one.  In  the  summer  months  it  was  most  amusing 
to  note  the  numbers  of  anglers  of  coarse  fish  getting 
out  at  the  various  stations :  Ponder's  End,  St.  Mar- 
garet's, Broxburne  and  the  Rye  House,  where  they 
were  going  to  take  up  their  pitches  on  the  river  Lea 
and  wait  till  daylight  before  they  commenced 
their  sport. 

I  had  often  heard  that  Hertford  Castle  was 
haunted,  but  personally  I  had  never  been  incon- 
venienced, and  never  slept  better  than  within  its 
thick  walls,  with  the  small  Gothic  windows.  I  was 
generally  given  a  beautiful  large  room  at  the  end 
of  a  long  passage,  but  one  night  there  came  a  thump 
at  the  door  which  woke  me  with  a  great  start,  which 
made  me  sit  upright  and  stare  towards  the  door, 
expecting  it  to  fly  open.  It  occurred  to  me  that  it 
might  be  the  favourite  fox  terrier  Jock  who  had 
thrown  from  his  mouth  a  solid  india  rubber  ball 
I  had  given  him.  I  quickly  opened  the  door,  and 
though  the  gas  jets  were  alight  all  along  the  corridor 
nothing  was  to  be  seen.  There  were  no  dogs  and  no 
practical  jokers;  in  fact,  I  was  alone  in  that  part 
of  the  Castle.  I  had  not  returned  to  my  room  five 
minutes  when  again  came  a  terrific  thump  on  the 
door.  I  remained  quietly  in  bed  this  time  and  did 
not  again  open  the  door,  and  I  do  not  mind  admit- 
ting that  it  was  daylight  before  I  went  to  sleep.  I 
told  Mrs.  Lowe  at  breakfast  about  this  odd  occur- 
rence, and  she  expressed  no  surprise,  but  said, 
326 


HERTFORD  CASTLE 

"You've  heard  it  before,  surely?  You  generally 
sleep  in  that  room.  Did  you  look  out  on  the  lawn?  " 
"No,"  I  replied,  "why  should  I?"  "Because," 
she  answered,  "  you  would  have  seen  a  little  figure 
of  a  man  crossing  it.  It  generally  is  to  be  seen  after 
those  thumps  on  the  door,  and  seems  to  glide,  and  he 
carries  what  looks  like  a  large  apple  in  his  hand! " 

Next  time  I  stayed  at  the  castle  Mrs.  Lowe  said 
to  me  quite  apologetically,  "  I  'm  so  sorry  to  turn 
you  out  of  your  room,  but  a  young  married  couple 
are  staying  here  and  I  knew  you  would  n't  mind  a 
smaller  one."  I  had  no  objection  whatever,  and  I 
heard  no  more  thumps  on  my  door. 

Another  house  where  one  almost  expects  to  see 
a  ghost  is  Bowden  House,  Totnes,  the  home  of  my 
sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Montagu  Bush,  and  her  husband. 
The  original  house,  which  was  nearly  four  hundred 
years  old,  was  a  nunnery,  and  the  crypt  with  the 
nuns'  cells  is  there,  with  their  gratings  quite  intact, 
a  weird  place  underground;  but  the  present  house, 
built  about  the  reign  of  the  third  George,  is  a 
most  cheerful  abode.  I  have  never  seen  a  ghost 
there,  but  then  I  have  generally  been  too  busy  and 
too  pleasantly  occupied  in  other  directions. 

Another  pleasant  house  I  stay  at  is  Sans  Souci, 
the  home  of  Baron  von  Eckhardstein,  at  Shanklin, 
Isle  of  Wight.  The  grounds  of  this  pretty  house, 
with  its  marble  terrace,  face  the  sea.  I  never  knew 
a  place  so  quiet  and  peaceful.  The  Baron's  motto 
is,  "  Do  what  you  like  as  long  as  you  don't  interfere 
with  me."  So  you  breakfast  when  you  like  and  go 
to  bed  when  you  like;  if  you  wish  to  stay  up  till 
three  A.  M.  you  can  do  so.     There  is  no  insolent 

327 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

servant  clattering  about  and  making  a  noise  to  give 
you  a  hint  to  go,  nor  a  tired  host  who  yawns  and 
reminds  you  that  he  generally  has  breakfast  at  eight. 
At  the  Baron's  we  only  have  to  observe  punctuality 
at  one  meal,  and  that  is  dinner  at  eight  o'clock, 
but  breakfast  and  lunch  are  "  go-as-you-please." 
When  staying  with  the  Baron  I  have  never  been 
asked  to  get  up  early  or  pressed  to  stay  up  late,  but 
I  have  observed  that  a  nice  plate  of  freshly  cut  sand- 
wiches is  generally  brought  in  between  eleven  and 
twelve  P.  M.  with  plenty  of  mineral  waters  in  case 
there  should  be  a  late  sitting.  The  Baron  is  not 
an  "  early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise  "  man.  If  his 
friends  all  desert  him  after  twelve  or  one  o'clock,  he 
will  sit  up  alone  and  read  until  the  blue  dawn. 

Lord  Cork,  nicknamed  by  his  intimate  pals 
"  Sol,"  and  the  Baron  are  two  of  the  worst  "  sitters- 
up  "  I  know.  W.  L.  Courtney,  the  late  Freddie 
Warre,  and  dear  old  Joe  Knight  could  run  them 
pretty  close  occasionally,  but  for  genuine  all-round 
stayers  I  '11  back  Lord  Cork  and  the  Baron  against 
all  comers. 

Ralph  Neville  told  me  that,  on  one  occasion  when 
he  was  staying  at  Sans  Souci,  he  retired  to  bed  at  one 
o'clock,  leaving  Lord  Cork  and  Baron  Eckhardstein 
in  the  library,  smoking  and  chatting.  There  were 
the  usual  huge  plate  of  sandwiches,  the  boxes  of 
cigars,  and  various  bottles.  Later  on  in  the  morning, 
about  six  o'clock,  he  went  to  the  library  to  get  a 
book:  the  two  champions  had  retired,  but,  he  said, 
"  the  room  looked  as  if  a  flight  of  locusts  had  passed 
through  it."  There  was  absolutely  nothing  left:  no 
sandwiches,  not  the  smallest  piece  of  cake  or  biscuit 
328 


SANS    SOUCI 

—  a  clean  sweep  had  been  made  —  and  not  a  cigar 
or  cigarette  was  left.  He  naturally  concluded  there 
had  been  a  late  sitting.  These  two  gentlemen  fre- 
quently pay  the  guinea  fine  at  the  clubs  after 
three  A.  M.  rather  than  be  turned  out  "  so  early." 

One  night  I  was  at  the  Garricjt  Club  in  the  com- 
pany of  the  two  cheery  late  sitters  and  Beerbohm 
Tree  —  I  beg  his  pardon,  Sir  Herbert,  —  and  two 
other  members,  and  the  time  was  passing  happily, 
when  Tree  said  to  me,  "  Are  you  going  to  have  a 
guinea's  worth?  "  "  Of  what?  "  said  I.  He  replied, 
"  It 's  ten  past  three  —  the  guinea  fine."  I  had  just 
had  a  bad  week  at  Deptford  and  to  pay  a  guinea 
for  staying  a  little  longer  in  the  Club  was  not  in 
my  line  at  all.  "  I  'm  off,"  said  I.  "  I  fear  we  're 
too  late,"  Tree  replied,  "  but  perhaps  if  we  go 
through  this  door  they  will  think  we  left  ten 
minutes  ago."  And  we  all  fled  with  a  most  humili- 
ating and  undignified  rush.  They  do  not  keep  the 
late  hours  now  that  they  did  in  the  old  days.  I 
was  not  a  member  then,  but  was  frequently  the  guest 
of  Toole  and  Irving.  I  recall  the  many  happy 
nights  and  early  mornings  in  their  delightful  so- 
ciety and  that  of  David  James,  Tom  Thorne  —  who, 
I  regret  to  hear,  has  fallen  on  bad  times  in  his  old 
age  —  the  late  Lord  Londesborough  —  a  fine  patron 
of  the  Drama  and  a  great  favourite  with  its  ex- 
ponents —  Henry  Lacy,  the  famous  old  tragedian, 
Lord  Abinger,  Comyns  Carr,  Hermann  Merivale, 
Charles  Wyndham,  Edward  Terry,  and  E.  S.  Wil- 
lard,  whose  acquisition  of  a  fortune  has  deprived 
the  stage  and  the  public  of  a  very  fine  actor. 

The  luncheon  hour  —  or  hours  —  at  the  Garrick 

329 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

is  the  time  nowadays  to  meet  Lord  Burnham,  beam- 
ing cheerily  from  the  head  of  the  long  table,  Sir 
Squire  Bancroft,  always  a  picturesque  figure,  H.  B. 
Irving,  just  back  from  a  highly  successful  Aus- 
tralian tour  during  which  his  wife,  our  popular 
and  original  Trilby,  repeated  her  earlier  successes; 
also  brother  Laurence  Irving,  a  memorable  Iago, 
busily  discussing  the  pros  and  cons  of  an  autumn 
tour.  His  wife  is  Mabel  Hackney,  a  very  clever 
and  accomplished  actress.  At  the  side  table  we 
shall  probably  find  Alfred  Sutro  and  Hubert  H. 
Davis,  brother  dramatists,  arguing  on  a  point  of  con- 
struction, Herbert  Waring  and  Bangs,  Sir  Charles 
Wyndham,  Sir  Douglas  Straight,  W.  H.  Kendal, 
Ashby  Sterry  and  Sir  Francis  Burnand.  After  lunch, 
"  chaff  "  in  the  lounge  served  up  by  Seymour  Hicks, 
with  a  number  of  good  stories  —  some  of  them  new 
ones  —  Arthur  Chudleigh  firing  matches  at  Hicks* 
hat.  This  lounge  is  a  warm  corner,  and  if  you  can't 
take  a  joke  don't  stay  there,  for  you  will  find  Comyns 
Carr  shooting  out  subtle  and  stinging  personalities 
charged  with  humour,  with  the  rapidity  of  a  ma- 
chine gun.  Lord  Craven  can  defend  himself,  even 
without  the  splendid  suit  of  armour  in  which  he 
cut  such  a  fine  figure  in  a  recent  tourney.  He  also 
has  the  advantage  of  being  a  Captain  of  the  Yeomen 
of  the  Guard,  but  he  wisely  takes  his  ease  sitting 
comfortably  in  a  luxuriously  padded  armchair, 
smoking  a  choice  cigar  in  a  ten-inch  amber  mouth- 
piece, and  looking  rather  like  one  of  his  own 
Georgian  ancestors.  Henry  Lucy  (Sir  Toby)  and 
Freddie  Boyle,  the  Botanist,  author  of  plays  and 
Essayist,  both  members  of  The  Garrick,  were 
330 


THE   GARRICK   CLUB 

friends  of  my  father!  Freddie  Boyle  was,  I  be- 
lieve, one  of  the  first  backers  John  Hollingshead 
erer  had  at  the  old  original  Gaiety  Theatre. 

About  eighteen  years  ago,  when  we  were  all  more 
or  less  frivolous  —  at  least  I  was  —  I  was  dining 
at  the  Beefsteak  Club,  having  an  evening  to  spare 
while  rehearsing  a  new  play,  when  Lord  Edward 
Cecil,  now  Lieutenant-General  of  the  forces,  en- 
tered (his  old  friends  ought  to  be  careful  in  address- 
ing him  in  their  familiar  way  as  "  Ned,"  though 
he  is  much  annoyed  if  they  don't) ,  and  asked  me  to 
accompany  him  to  the  Pavilion  Music  Hall.  I 
readily  accepted.  He  suggested  a  box,  and  what 
about  taking  Leslie  (Leslie  Ward)  with  us  as  he 
had  been  "  a  good  boy"  recently?  "Thanks  very 
much,"  replied  Leslie,  "  I  should  be  delighted,  but 
I  can't  join  you,  because,  as  you  observe,  I  am  not  in 
evening  dress."  "  That  won't  matter,  Leslie,"  said 
Lord  Edward.  "  Excuse  me,  oh  yes,  it  will,"  an- 
swered Leslie.  "  I  could  n't  do  it,  I  could  n't,  really. 
I  don't  so  much  mind  going  to  a  theatre  in  morning 
dress,  but  I  should  n't  like  to  go  to  a  music  hall  un- 
less I  had  my  dress  togs  on  "  ("  glad  rags  "  they  are 
now  called).  Lord  Edward  thought  for  a  minute, 
and  with  the  promptitude  charactistic  of  the 
soldier  who  has  to  be  ready  for  any  and  every  emer- 
gency, suddenly  struck  on  a  brilliant  idea  to  over- 
come the  difficulty.  "  My  dear  Leslie,"  he  said, 
14  we  will  not  be  deprived  of  your  excellent  company 
for  the  sake  of  an  absurd  convention.  You  shall  be 
properly  dressed,"  and  calling  to  the  steward,  said, 
"  Charles,  bring  some  cartridge  paper  and  pins," 
and,  with  or  without  Leslie's  consent,  we  started  to 

33i 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

rig  him  up  for  the  occasion.  Leslie  wore  a  black 
frock  coat,  dark  waistcoat  and  trousers,  and  a  col- 
oured shirt.  We  rapidly  pinned  up  the  coat  in  front, 
getting  the  exact  cut  of  a  dress  coat,  and  Cecil  cut 
out  a  wonderful  shirt  front  in  paper,  and  with 
pen  and  ink  made  three  fine  black  studs  and  cuffs  to 
match,  and  while  I  cut  out  a  high  standing  collar 
(which  required  a  bit  of  doing),  Cecil  made  a 
splendid  white  tie,  not "  to  tie  "  but  a  "  ready  made  " 
one,  with  the  aid  of  gum  and  pins.  We  finished 
him  in  about  five  minutes,  and  Leslie  confessed,  on 
looking  in  the  glass,  that  he  had  seldom  seen  himself 
to  better  advantage,  and  hoped  he  would  last  out  the 
evening.  One  certainly  could  n't  have  noticed  any- 
thing peculiar  in  him  from  three  yards  off  and  could 
never  have  believed  he  was  a  fake.  Of  course  he 
had  to  be  careful  how  he  walked.  We  noticed  he 
vibrated  a  bit,  for  cartridge  paper  has  n't  the 
pliability  of  linen.  We  cabbed  it  to  the  Pavilion 
Music  Hall,  and  Leslie  never  looked  better  than  he 
did  for  the  first  ten  minutes  sitting  in  front  of  the 
box,  even  if  a  bit  stiff;  but  whether  it  was  laughing 
too  much  or  moving  about  I  can't  say,  but  suddenly 
his  paper  tie  came  in  half;  half  of  it  fell  off,  while 
the  other  half,  which  was  pinned,  remained  on. 
Shortly  afterwards  the  high  collar  tore  at  the  back, 
and  one  cuff  fell  off,  disclosing  a  blue  shirt,  and 
then  the  white  shirt  front  got  out  of  control,  and  he 
practically  fell  to  pieces,  and  being  ashamed  to  be 
seen  in  a  music  hall  in  morning  dress,  he  had  to  sit 
at  the  back  of  the  box  for  the  remainder  of  the 
evening. 

February,  191 2,  closed  very  sadly  for  me,  for  my 
332 


GEORGE   GROSSMITH 

dear  brother  George,  who  had  been  in  indifferent 
health  for  several  years  and  a  terrible  sufferer  from 
insomnia,  passed  peacefully  away  at  his  house  at 
Folkestone.  He  had  expressed  great  anxiety  to 
hear  the  result  of  his  eldest  son's  candidature  for 
the  Beefsteak  Club,  and  directly  I  heard  the  pleas- 
ant news  that  "  George  Junior  "  had  been  elected 
I  wired  to  my  brother.  I  wrote  the  telegram  at 
midnight  and  it  was  delivered  at  eight  A.  M.  in  the 
morning,  but  too  late,  as  he  had  passed  away  at 
three  A.  M. 


333 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

The  Provinces 

LIVERPOOL,  as  I  have  mentioned,  is  a  joy- 
ous, fresh  and  brilliant  city,  and,  by  the 
j  way,  now  contains  one  of  the  finest  hotels 
•  in  the  world.  Manchester  is  tremendously 
go-ahead  and  has  fine  appreciative  audiences. 
They  want  the  best  and  will  have  it.  Like  Liver- 
pool, they  won't  have  any  second-class  companies 
"  lumbered  "  on  to  them,  they  want  the  alleged 
"Star  "  and  the  London  cast. 

Sheffield,  as  every  one  knows,  makes  a  great 
specialty  of  smoke,  but  I  think  people  visiting  the 
town  don't  appreciate  under  the  circumstances  how 
extremely  picturesque  it  is.  There  is  work  for  the 
painter  for  many  months:  when  the  sun  is  going 
down  behind  the  hazy  smoke  of  all  colours,  with 
dozens  of  chimney-stacks  in  the  distance,  all  clouded 
in  haze,  and  queer  reflections  on  the  river,  to  my 
mind  it  is  worthy  of  the  brush  of  a  Turner.  As 
Atkinson  Grimshaw  saw  the  beauty  of  the  lighted 
shops,  I  see  the  beauties  of  Sheffield  with  its  smoke 
and  flames.  I  painted  a  little  picture,  from  the 
Victoria  Station  Hotel  looking  down  the  river,  with 
the  puffing  of  the  white  steam  from  exhaust  pipes 
and  the  clouds  of  various  coloured  smokes  from  the 
stacks,  a  little  picture  which  is  generally  picked  out 
334 


THE    PROVINCES 

by  friends  who  visit  my  house.  The  subject  is 
worthy  of  a  large  canvas  and  a  better  painter. 

Newcastle  also  furnishes  good  audiences  and 
most  enthusiastic  ones. 

Edinburgh  is  very  critical  and  appreciates  good 
work.  I  think  Princes  Street,  Edinburgh,  the  finest 
and  most  picturesque  street  in  Great  Britain.  Only 
one  side  is  occupied  by  shops ;  on  the  other  side  is 
the  grand  old  Castle  and  the  old  town  of  Canongate 
in  the  distance,  backed  up  by  Arthur's  Seat  and 
beautiful  mountains —  a  hill,  as  they  call  it  in  Scot- 
land —  a  mountain  in  Wales. 

Glasgow  is  a  great  city  to  capture.  They 
are  naturally  lovers  of  art  of  all  kinds,  and  it  is  the 
biggest  city  in  the  United  Kingdom,  but  not  an  easy 
audience  to  please. 

To  Bradford,  also  Hull,  I  should  feel  inclined 
to  give  a  miss.  Bradford  is  called,  from  the  actor's 
point  of  view,  "  the  comedian's  grave."  This  I  have 
not  personally  found  to  be  the  case,  but  it  is  difficult 
to  fill  the  theatre  unless  it  be  with  a  musical  comedy. 
They  seem  to  want  the  talent  of  Popsy  Hockitt  and 
Dolly  Cataract  and  a  crowd  of  "  Joy  Girls  "  to  dance 
to  the  tum-te-tum  music.  But  what  pleased  me,  from 
a  painter's  point  of  view,  at  Bradford  was,  at  nearly 
every  hotel  or  bar  one  visited,  —  and  actors  do  fre- 
quently visit  bars,  —  the  number  of  paintings  one 
noticed  on  the  walls.  No  matter  where  you  went, 
paintings  were  hanging  everywhere,  and  some  were 
very  fine  ones  which  must  have  cost  a  lot  of  money; 
not  bogus  Old  Masters,  but  very  good  modern  pic- 
tures. You  will  seldom  see  in  any  hotel  or  bar  in 
London  an  oil  or  water-colour  picture  adorning  the 

335 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

walls.  The  class  of  decoration  you  will  note  is  gen- 
erally a  coloured  poster  advertising  a  brand  of 
whiskey  or  soap,  but  at  Bradford  there  are  paint- 
ings everywhere  and  many  of  good  quality. 

Birmingham  is  a  gay  and  cheerful  town,  but  they 
very  much  prefer  the  music  hall  musical  comedy, 
and  "  the  feather  in  the  hat  and  sword  drama,"  to 
the  quiet,  cleverly  written  comedy  that  deserves 
more  encouragement  nowadays  than  it  gets  out  of 
London. 

On  arriving  at  an  hotel  in  one  of  the  big  cities  I 
was  not  satisfied  with  the  bedroom  assigned  to  me; 
it  was  small,  badly  furnished,  and  noisy.  I  told  the 
chambermaid  I  wanted  something  very  quiet.  She 
then  took  me  to  a  large  room  on  the  ground  floor. 
I  like  to  be  high  up  and  have  a  great  objection  to 
the  ground  floor,  but  she  declared  it  was  the  quietest 
room  in  the  house.  Never  have  I  seen  a  more 
gloomy  room;  there  was  a  high  wall  close  to  the 
window  which  prevented  any  daylight  from  enter- 
ing, and  but  for  her  turning  on  the  electric  light,  one 
would  have  been  in  total  darkness.    It  was  horrible. 

I  told  the  maid  I  could  n't  sleep  there ;  I  said  it  was 

II  the  kind  of  room  to  commit  suicide  in."  She 
evidently  did  n't  understand  all  I  said,  because  she 
replied,  "  Yes,  this  was  the  room  he  committed 
suicide  in,  but  we  've  had  it  repapered  and  changed 
the  carpet  since  he  did  it!  " 


33* 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

Touring  the  Provinces 

NO  doubt  the  great  majority  of  actors  con- 
sider an  ideal  engagement  is  "  a  good  part 
at  a  good  theatre  in  the  West  End  of 
London,"  and  they  're  right.  But  when 
the  play  "  catches  on,"  as  one  naturally  hopes  it  will, 
it  is  apt  to  become  very  monotonous  going  down  to 
the  same  theatre  and  doing  the  same  thing  every 
night,  whereas,  if  you  are  touring,  there  is  a  change 
every  week,  and  the  Sunday  journey  mitigates  the 
monotonous  round.  When  you  are  in  management 
there  is  always  the  excitement  of  waiting  to  see  if 
you  will  do  better  or  worse  in  the  next  town. 

The  game  of  golf  helps  to  make  each  town  you 
visit  very  pleasant.  I  am  no  player  myself,  but  I 
enjoy  the  exercise  very  much.  Nearly  every  mem- 
ber of  one's  company  plays  golf.  My  assistant  stage 
manager  and  prompter,  Ackerman,  a  lad  of  about 
nineteen,  on  one  occasion  was  very  eager  to  learn, 
but  had  no  clubs,  so  I  told  him  I  should  be  very 
pleased  to  assist  him  in  the  matter,  and  contributed 
five  shillings  towards  them,  and  he  went  to  get  some. 
He  said  he  knew  a  shop  where  one  could  get  half 
a  dozen  first-rate  ones  at  a  little  over  a  shilling 
apiece,  he  had  seen  them  in  the  window,  and  the 

337 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

next  day  he  was  radiant  at  having  obtained  them  for 
seven  shillings!  It  certainly  was  the  cheapest  bar- 
gain I  had  seen,  but  when  he  took  them  out  to  play 
his  first  game,  he  could  do  nothing  with  them  at 
all,  he  declared  he  could  do  better  with  a  common 
walking-stick,  and  on  one  of  his  friends  trying  them, 
was  not  long  in  discovering  that  they  were  made  for 
a  left-handed  man.    Hence  their  cheapness! 

But  to  return  to  the  Provincial  Theatres.  I  have 
always  been  a  reserved  man  and  detest  theatrical 
pose  and  show-off,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  if  you 
are  a  "  Star  "  touring  the  Provinces  you  ought  to 
do  what  is  called  play  the  game,  and  go  "  every- 
where "  and  be  seen  everywhere,  take  the  chair 
at  a  smoking  concert,  let  your  stage  manager  tap 
the  curtain  at  the  end  of  the  acts  and  take  repeated 
calls,  worked  up  by  attendants  in  front  of  the 
house.  If  you  have  half  a  dozen  calls,  your  man- 
ager sends  a  paragraph  to  the  theatrical  papers, 
The  Era  and  The  Stage  (the  other  papers  won't 
take  them),  to  make  the  interesting  announce- 
ment that  at,  say,  Sheffield  you  had  twenty  calls 
after  the  second  act  and  twenty-five  after  the 
third.  I  have  never  thought  these  paragraphs 
much  good,  for  the  only  people  who  read  them 
would  be  actors  themselves,  who  would  n't  believe 
them. 

I  know  one  or  two  actors  having  great  reputa- 
tions in  the  Provinces,  who  after  the  curtain  has 
been  raised  many  times  to  great  applause,  have  care- 
fully abstained  from  being  on  the  stage,  only  the 
members  of  the  company  being  in  view.  The  "  great 
Star,"  who  has  the  best  part  in  the  play  —  some- 
338 


TOURING   THE    PROVINCES 

times  the  only  good  part  —  and  has  been  doing  noble 
deeds  all  the  evening,  is  not  present;  why  is  he  so 
modest?  This  won't  do,  so  the  applause  redoubles, 
and  loud  shouts  (pre-arranged)  are  heard  all  over 
the  building,  his  name  is  called.  There  is  a  long 
pause.  Then  the  stage  is  cleared  of  the  company, 
with  all  lights  out  except  three  or  four  very  strong 
limes  from  the  side,  which  searching  light  discovers 
the  Star  alone  on  the  stage.  Then  the  cheering  in 
front  is  absolutely  deafening.  Having,  with  the 
most  modest  expression,  conveyed  to  the  audience 
that  you  did  n't  know  they  wanted  you  (poor  inno- 
cent thing),  you  take  half  a  dozen  calls;  this  is 
managed  by  not  letting  the  curtain  quite  touch  the 
stage  when  it  descends,  so  that  it  goes  up  and  down 
continually  without  stopping;  then  finally  you 
wave  your  left  hand  to  the  stage  manager  in  the 
prompt  wing,  indicating  that  you  are  going  to  make 
a  speech,  which  has  been  loudly  demanded,  —  by 
your  Manager  or  his  allies,  generally  your  dresser, 
who  has  gone  to  the  front  of  the  House.  The  cur- 
tain remains  up,  and  you  slowly  take  three  or 
four  steps  towards  the  footlights.  All  lights  are 
up  now,  and  the  majority  of  the  audience  are 
standing.  You  are  so  overwhelmed  at  this  "  unex- 
pected "  reception  that  for  a  few  moments  you  are 
dazed,  you  look  right  and  left,  scarcely  knowing 
what  to  do  or  say  (you  have  carefully  thought  out 
your  speech  in  the  afternoon  while  walking  round 
one  of  the  lovely  parks).  With  your  right  hand 
you  push  your  hair  off  your  forehead  and  stammer 
out,  "  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  I  hope  you  will  per- 
mit me  to  say  dear  friends?"  (cheers).     "I  —  er 

339 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

—  I  —  er — (this  looks  as  if  the  request  for  a 
speech  were  unexpected  and  that  you  are  quite  un- 
prepared) "I  —  er  —  have  been  looking  forward 
for  a  long  time  to  visiting  this  beautiful  City " 
(loud  applause) ,  "  and  at  length  —  my  —  er  —  de- 
sire has  been  gratified."  (Voice  from  gallery, 
"  Come  back  again  soon,  sir!  ")  "  Thank  you.  I" 
(with  an  upward  glance  at  the  gallery)  "  will  deal 
with  that  invitation  later.  It  has  been  my  great 
privilege  to  act  in  all  the  principal  cities  of  the 
world,  including  New  York,"  (cheers)  "  Bos- 
ton and  Chicago,"  (loud  cheers)  "as  well  as  Lon- 
don, and  I  can  honestly  say  that  never — I  repeat 
never"  (getting  very  excited)  "have  I  played  to 
a  more  appreciative  or  intellectual  audience  than  it 
has  been  my  good  fortune  to  —  er  —  to  —  er  — 
exhibit  my  skill  (if  I  possess  any)  to,  to-night  — 
an  audience  composed  of  generous  friends  if  I  may 
say  so?  "  (Loud  applause  and  cries  of  "  Yes,  yes.") 
"  I  must  also  thank  you  on  behalf  of  my  colleagues, 

—  my  brother  artists,  who  have  assisted  me  in  my 
work"  (faint  applause)  "to-night.  And — er  — 
your  excellent  manager,  who  represents  this  palatial 
Temple  of  Art,  always  hard  working  in  his  en- 
deavours to  get  the  best  productions  and  best  at- 
tractions for  you  to  this  —  to  my  mind  —  one  of 
the  best  lighted  and  most  comfortable  theatres  in 
England,  I  might  say  in  the  world.  I  refer  to 
Mr.  Jones."  (Great  applause.)  "  He  has  asked 
me  to  pay  a  return  visit  in  April  "  (applause  abso- 
lutely deafening),  "  and  I  have  to-night  signed  an 
agreement  to  do  so.  (No  more  can  be  heard 
owing  to  the  frantic  shouting.)  You  then  step 
340 


TOURING   THE   PROVINCES 

back,  catch  the  eye  of  the  stage  manager  (who  is 
yawning,  with  hand  ready  to  touch  the  bell  for  the 
descent  of  the  curtain),  smile  broadly,  "  And  I  wish 
you,  dear  friends,  Good-Night." 

I  loathe  making  a  speech  or  listening  to  one,  and 
shirk  it  whenever  I  can.  I  took  my  four-act  com- 
edy, "  The  Duffer,"  on  tour;  it  had  had  a  fair  run 
in  London,  and  at  a  great  deal  of  expense  I  took 
it  into  the  Provinces  with  the  original  company, 
including  the  late  Beryl  Faber,  Gertrude  King- 
ston, Dido  Drake,  Gladys  Mason,  and  Vernon 
Steel,  W.  T.  Lovell,  Annie  Hill,  and  others. 
It  was  an  Art  Play,  written  entirely  round  the 
lives  of  Art  students,  and  had  plenty  of  fun  and 
pathos. 

I  was  very  disappointed  at  the  bad  business  we  did 
at  Leeds.  The  public  preferred  the  opposition,  a 
company  playing  a  musical  entertainment,  generally 
called  "  musical  comedy."  I  think  it  was  the 
"  Scullery  Girl "  or  some  such  gem.  There  was 
not  much  comedy  in  it,  and  not  being  musical, 
I  am  not  competent  to  express  an  opinion  on  its 
musical  qualifications,  but  they  "  travelled "  be- 
tween twenty  and  thirty  pretty  girls,  and  I  think 
these  ladies  considerably  added  to  the  drawing 
powers  of  the  so-called  comedy.  The  last  time  I 
was  in  America  I  met  just  such  a  company  "  on  the 
road,"  and  the  coloured  posters  depicted  forty 
pretty  girls  called  "  Joy  Girls "  and  in  large  letters 
announced  "  that  there  were  none  over  seventeen, 
and  "  none  were  married." 

So  when  you  are  in  opposition  to  an  entertain- 
ment of  this  class,  that  appeals  to  gross  or  common- 

34i 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

minded  people,  it  is  difficult  to  fill  your  house,  as 
ten  out  of  a  dozen  of  the  public  will  rush  to  see 
"  The  Scullery  Girl,"  and  many  young  men  will  go 
every  night  during  the  week's  visit,  and  often 
have  n't  the  courage  to  admit  that  they  like  it,  but, 
as  I  have  already  mentioned,  they  will  say  they  were 
"  taken  there."  Well,  to  return  to  my  play,  this 
second-rate  company  with  its  "  Joy  Girls  "  carry- 
ing Dorothy  bags  and  parading  the  town  all  day, 
from  a  business  point  of  view  wiped  the  floor  with 
us,  and  I  was  disgusted  that  a  city,  famed  for  its 
love  of  music,  holding  a  great  Musical  Festival, 
should  have  preferred  this  commonplace  stuff  to  a 
sound,  legitimate  entertainment.  However,  on 
the  last  night,  we  had  a  pretty  good  house,  and 
I  took  several  calls,  and  there  was  a  loud  cry  for 
a  speech  in  a  voice  that  sounded  not  unfamiliar 
to  me.  I  took  the  usual  three  steps  forward, 
catching  the  eye  of  my  stage  manager  to  hold 
the  curtain  while  I  said  a  few  words.  "  Ladies 
and  Gentlemen,"  I  said,  "  I  confess  to  being  a  little 
disappointed  at  the  half-filled  houses  to  which  I 
have  played  during  the  early  part  of  the  week;  to 
notice  the  large  number  of  empty  seats  in  this  huge 
theatre  is  most  disheartening  "("  Shame,"  cried  a 
voice),  "  and  I  had  made  up  my  mind  not  to  visit 
this  beautiful  city  again,  professionally."  (More 
shouts,  "  Don't  say  that,  sir.  We  like  you.") 
"  Thank  you,"  I  replied,  bowing  with  a  sweet  smile 
to  where  I  thought  the  voice  came  from,  "  but,"  I 
continued,  "  even  if  I  did  n't  come  again,  I  have  no 
doubt  the  woollen  trade  would  still  continue  to 
flourish  and  the  factories  would  not  close  down  on 
342 


TOURING  THE   PROVINCES 

that  account."  (Good-natured  laugh.)  "There- 
fore I  shall  hope  to  come  again  at  some  future  time." 
(Cheers),  and  a  very  loud  voice  shouted,  "Come 
again  in  the  autumn.  We  like  you!  You're  a 
great  actor  1"  (Cheers.)  I  recognised  the  voice 
this  time.  It  was  that  of  my  energetic  acting  man- 
ager, Richard  Maynard,  whom  I  could  just  catch 
sight  of  standing  at  the  back  of  the  dress  circle, 
imitating  a  megaphone  with  his  hands  on  the  side 
of  his  cheeks,  shouting  for  all  he  was  worth,  and 
"  Hallett,"  my  dresser,  was  standing  near  him, 
cheering  everything  he  said,  and  very  much  dis- 
counting the  value  of  the  applause. 

By  the  way,  my  manager,  Maynard,  has  his  trou- 
bles also.  He  has  the  good  fortune  to  have  a  par- 
ticularly beautiful  little  son,  the  ideal  of  Millais' 
picture  of  "  Bubbles."  I  have  never  seen  a  hand- 
somer child.  He  was  painted  by  Mrs.  Seymour  Lu- 
cas, and  the  boy  Richard  is  known  to  many  people 
who  have  not  met  the  parents  of  a  "  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  Cherub."  Frequently  I  have  introduced 
Maynard  to  people  who  only  know  the  son.  "  This 
is  the  father  of  Dicky,"  I  would  say,  and  the  tactless 
ones  would  invariably  reply,  "Oh!  No.  Surely! 
Really?  I  expect  Mrs.  Maynard  is  a  very  beautiful 
woman?" 

On  tour,  if  the  business  is  n't  good,  your  manager 
will  tell  you  "  the  other  theatres  are  not  playing 
to  half  your  returns "  and  "  the  company  that  pre- 
ceded yours  played  to  only  a  quarter."  I  am  only 
sorry  for  the  others  (if  it's  true)  and  it  doesn't 
make  my  business  better. 

The  excuses  are  many.    There  was  also  "  a  flower 

343 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

show  last  week  "  and  "  Amateur  Theatricals  at  the 
Town  Hall  this  week."  And  when  things  are  very 
bad  you  are  apt  to  suspect  the  people  in  control  in 
the  front  of  the  house  and  you  HOPE  there  is  no 
"  leakage." 

I  can  quite  understand  the  business  being  baa 
when  you  are  "  up  against "  a  prize  fight  at  the 
Rotunda  Hall,  a  musical  "Joy  Girl"  piece  or 
Wrestling  Bears  or  a  dancing  Alligator  at  the 
Music  Hall.  A  great  attraction  now  are  Trained 
Roosters,  who  ride  bicycles  and  walk  the  tight 
rope.  Nothing  can  stand  against  these  attractions, 
but  I  remember  one  occasion,  when  there  was 
nothing  against  us  but  Shakespeare  and  Old 
Comedy,  nothing  to  fear,  and  yet  the  business 
was  not  what  we  had  hoped  for.  My  manager, 
always  ready  with  a  reason,  came  to  my  dressing- 
room,  threw  down  an  evening  paper,  and  said, 
"  This  accounts  for  everything,  there  's  a  big  drop 
all  round,  and  no  wonder!  "  at  the  same  time  show- 
ing me  the  heading  of  a  police  report  that  a  well- 
known  manager  had  been  arrested  for  manipulating 
accounts.  "  What  has  this  to  do  with  it?  "  I  asked. 
His  reply  was,  "  No  one  will  come  to  the  theatre. 
They  would  n't  like  to  come,  in  case  it 's  the  same 
theatre  where  the  frauds  occurred!  I" 

On  tour,  the  company  generally  go  into  theatrical 
"digs  "  or  second-rate  hotels,  where  they  get  plain 
but  excellent  food  at  half  the  cost  and  much  better 
in  quality  than  at  most  of  the  so-called  first-class 
hotels  —  where  the  "  Star  "  has  to  stay,  which  gen- 
erally has  "  slam  doors  "  ergo,  no  sleep  after  six 
in  the  morning. 
344 


TOURING   THE    PROVINCES 

Oxford  and  Cambridge 

Strange  to  say,  it  was  not  until  1910  that  I  visited 
either  of  our  famous  University  towns  (or  cities) 
professionally. 

I  had  frequently  been  told  how  much  I  should 
like  playing  there,  and  what  splendid  audiences  I 
should  find,  and  that  if  they  happened  "  to  take 
to  me  "  all  would  be  well,  but  I  was  scarcely  pre- 
pared for  the  whole-hearted  enthusiasm  of  the 
undergraduates  of  both  Oxford  and  Cambridge. 
They  seemed  to  like  me  almost  as  much  as  I  liked 
them,  and  my  whole  day  was  spent  in  the  company 
of  these  delightful  boys,  who  treated  me  as  their 
equal  and  made  me  feel  about  twenty  years  old  for 
the  time  being.  At  Cambridge  they  are  a  trifle  less 
sedate  than  they  are  at  Oxford,  perhaps  I  should 
rather  say  they  are  a  trifle  more  exuberant. 

I  am  looking  forward  with  the  keenest  and  pleas- 
antest  anticipation  to  paying  another  visit  to  Oxford 
and  Cambridge.  Unfortunately,  "  Baby  Mine," 
with  which  I  am  touring  this  autumn,  is  not  con- 
sidered a  wise  play  to  produce  in  either  city, 
for  reasons  best  known  to  the  genial  managers  of 
the  respective  theatres.  Mr.  Redfern,  J.  P.,  at  the 
New  Theatre,  Cambridge,  and  Mr.  Dorrill  at 
Oxford,  know  their  audiences  too  well  to  run  any 
risks. 


345 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

Voyage  to  Montreal.    Hospitality  in  Canada. 
New    York.    John    Drew.    "  Baby    Mine  " 

I  DON'T  think  I  ever  had  a  more  pleasant 
passage  across  the  Atlantic  than  in  the 
autumn  of  1910  on  board  the  "Tunisian" 
bound  for  Montreal,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
we  encountered  a  terrific  thunderstorm  on  the  St. 
Lawrence  River  and  ran  aground;  the  sky  at  one 
time  turned  a  dark  green  —  it  was  a  wonderful 
sight!  I  wish  I  could  have  had  a  shot  at  it  with 
my  paints.  I  had  a  most  delightful  time  in  Mont- 
real and  Toronto,  and  even  better  at  Ottawa.  I 
wanted  a  fortnight  to  be  able  to  avail  myself  of 
all  the  many  kind  invitations  I  received,  and  a 
lunch  at  the  Country  Club  on  a  brilliantly  fine, 
sunny,  yet  cool  autumn  day,  in  the  company  of 
some  of  the  most  charming  and  the  prettiest  women 
I  have  ever  met,  will  always  be  one  of  the  happy 
landmarks  in  my  memory. 

Sir  Joseph  Lawrence,  cheery  and  good-natured, 
and  Sir  Bryan  Leighton  seemed  everywhere. 
Leighton  would  suddenly  discover  that  he  was 
giving  three  supper  parties  on  one  night,  and  had 
continually  to  jump  up  from  the  table  to  bolt  off 
somewhere  else,  where  he  was  expected  at  a  club 
346 


NEW   YORK 

or  a  restaurant,  but  it  somehow  seemed  quite  natural 
to  him. 

Everything  went  well  in  Canada,  but  on  arriving 
in  the  States,  at  Washington,  and  after  playing  Car- 
ton's play,  "  Mr.  Preedy  and  the  Countess,"  it  did  n't 
take  me  long  to  discover  that  they  didn't  care  for 
it,  and  I  don't  think  that  they  had  ever  heard  of 
me  (it  wc.j  nine  years  since  I  last  visited  America) 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  people  who  had  vis- 
ited Europe,  including  President  Taft,  who  hon- 
oured me  by  his  presence  on  the  first  night  and  was 
indeed  a  splendid  audience  in  himself.  I  met  at 
Washington  the  famous  old  actor,  Denman  Thomp- 
son, who  has  played  in  a  curious  play  called  "  The 
Old  Homestead  "  for  over  thirty  years.  There  are 
four  acts  in  it.  He  played  in  the  first  and  last  acts, 
and  had  a  double  to  represent  him  in  the  second 
and  third  acts,  because  there  was  too  much  knock- 
about business  for  a  man  close  on  eighty  years  of 
age  to  indulge  in.  I  saw  Raymond  Hitchcock,  the 
Fred  Leslie  of  America,  who  struck  me  as  a  man 
with  marked  personality,  and  is  a  great  attraction  on 
the  other  side. 

We  played  for  three  weeks  in  New  York,  but 
the  piece  did  not  draw  there.  We  might  have  done 
better  had  we  played  at  Maxine  Elliot's  Theatre, 
as  originally  arranged,  but  at  the  last  moment  we 
were  bowled  out  by  an  English-American  author, 
who  was  desirous  of  placing  his  own  play  at  the 
theatre  we  had  settled  on.  I  had  an  exceedingly 
pleasant  time  in  New  York,  as  I  did  in  Washington, 
and  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  a  farce  called 
"  Baby  Mine,"  to  my  mind  one  of  the  funniest 

347 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

plays  produced  for  many  years  (by  Miss  Mar- 
garet Mayo)  and  I  was  determined  not  to  leave 
New  York  until  I  could  get  a  firm  hold  of 
that  "  Baby  "  —  not  that  I  doubted  that  the  poor 
thing  would  be  well  cared  for  by  those  cheerful 
London  baby  farmers,  William  Greet  and  Engle- 
bach,  who  had  the  English  rights,  though  I  thought 
that  Greet  might  neglect  the  poor  child,  as  he  is 
away  so  much  in  the  country  on  those  long  week 
ends  that  he  indulges  in;  it  might  also  suffer  from 
cold  feet  at  times  and  also  from  the  smoke  of  the 
numerous  cigars  Englebach  puffs  in  the  course  of 
the  day  at  his  office  at  Lyric  Chambers.  By  the 
way,  his  cigars  are  kept  in  a  drawer  of  his  roll-top 
desk,  which  are  fastened  together,  when  the  desk 
is  opened,  by  a  walking  stick  passed  through  a  hole 
in  them.  This  is  worth  knowing  if  you  have  to 
wait  when  he  is  out. 

I  produced  "  Baby  Mine "  in  London  in  the 
spring  of  191 1,  with  a  carefully  chosen  cast,  includ- 
ing Iris  Hoey,  a  brilliant  little  actress.  The  play 
ran  at  the  Criterion  and  Vaudeville  theatres  for  close 
on  a  year,  and  we  are  playing  it  now  in  the  Provinces 
and  seem  likely  to  do  so  for  some  time  to  come. 

While  in  New  York  I  had  some  very  cheery 
days  and  evenings.  One  of  my  hostesses  was  the 
graceful  Amelia  Bingham  and  her  good-natured, 
hospitable  husband.  It  is  so  easy  to  praise  the  hus- 
band when  the  wife  is  very  attractive.  I  was  also 
glad  to  meet  William  Abingdon,  the  champion  of 
villainy  on  the  stage  in  the  good  old  Adelphi 
dramas.  How  I  have  heard  him  hissed  when  com- 
ing before  the  curtain  to  take  his  call!  With  shouts 
348 


NEW  YORK 

from  the  pit  and  gallery,  "  Oh,  you  blackguard ! 
I  wish  you  was  here!  I'd  give  you  something," 
etc.,  also  Mrs.  Edwin  Low,  a  most  charming  hostess 
and  clever  woman.  During  my  stay  in  New  York 
I  showed  her  the  town,  and  took  her  to  the  top  of 
nearly  all  the  skyscrapers. 

I  had  scarcely  been  in  New  York  an  hour,  when 
its  chief  light  comedian,  the  popular  John  Drew, 
asked  me  to  lunch,  supper,  and  breakfast.  I  lunched 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Drew  on  the  following  day, 
and  as  he  had  not  been  to  London  for  a  couple 
of  years  he  was  very  anxious  to  hear  of  numerous 
friends  of  his  at  the  Beefsteak  Club,  of  which  he 
is  a  member.  "How  is  Colonel  So-and-so?"  he 
would  ask.  "  Alas ! "  I  had  to  reply,  "  he  died 
nearly  a  year  ago."  "  That 's  bad ;  and  how  's  dear 
old  Johnnie?  "    "  Ah,  he  's  gone  also,"  I  answered. 

"  And  how  's  that  lively  peer,  Lord ?  "    "  Oh! 

he  passed  away  three  months  ago."  At  last  Drew 
paused,  and  with  a  very  serious  face  said,  "  Say, 
Weedon,  is  n't  there  any  member  of  the  Club  only 
seriously  ill?" 


349 


CHAPTER   XXX 
Looking  Back.    The  Old  Days  and  Ways 

MY  old  friend  Allan  Aynesworth  has  just 
made  his  debut  as  an  actor-manager, 
and  reading  of  his  success  recalls 
many  past  incidents  in  which  we 
were  associated  in  the  days  when  I  was  living 
at  the  Old  House,  Canonbury;  we  used  to  have 
great  times  there  and  much  fun,  although  I  am 
afraid  my  bachelor  festivals  must  have  occasionally 
caused  some  slight  excitement  in  that  quiet  neigh- 
bourhood. While  we  were  both  playing  at  the 
Court  Theatre,  Aynesworth  was  my  guest  at  Canon- 
bury  for  a  few  days,  and  after  the  performance  we 
drove  back  together  in  a  hansom  cab  —  it  was  long 
before  taxis  were  invented  —  and  it  was  uphill  all 
the  way.  When  we  arrived  at  the  Old  House,  the 
cabman  disputed  the  fare  (as  usual),  although  he 
was  paid  twice  as  much  as  he  could  legally  demand. 
Aynesworth  was  in  no  mood  for  bandying  words 
with  a  cabman,  he  wanted  to  get  to  his  supper. 
The  cabman  said  it  was  two  miles  beyond  the 
radius  (Canonbury  is  one  mile  inside  it)  and  he 
would  have  another  shilling!  "  How  are  you  go- 
ing to  get  it?  "  said  Aynesworth,  excitedly.  u  Do 
you  know  who  you  're  talking  to,  and  do  you  know 
350 


NO.    I     HI'.l'I'OKI)    miL'ARE 


ALLAN  AYNESWORTH  AT  CANONBURY 

who  lives  here?"  "No,  I  don't,"  answered  the 
cabbie,  "  and  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  want  to;  you  both 
seem  to  me  a  bit  eccentric."  We  had  been  shout- 
ing and  laughing  noisily  all  the  way  up,  and  Aynes- 
worth  had  continually  tapped  the  horse  with  his 
cane  to  induce  him  to  go  faster.  At  last  Aynesworth 
could  stand  no  more.  "  Are  you  going? "  he 
shouted.  "  No,"  said  the  cabbie,  whereupon  Aynes- 
worth seized  the  biggest  eighteenth-century  horse 
pistol  off  the  oak  chest  just  inside  the  hall  door  and 
placed  it  at  the  driver's  head.  He  was  so  alarmed 
that  he  ducked  his  head,  slashed  the  horse,  and 
went  off  like  a  "  Derby  winner."  I  had  a  good  deal 
of  trouble  with  cabmen  in  those  days,  although  I 
always  overpaid  them. 

One  night  I  returned  in  a  hansom  about  two 
o'clock  from  a  dance  in  Portman  Square,  a  half- 
crown  fare,  but  taking  into  consideration  the  hill, 
the  time  in  the  morning,  and  the  weather,  for  it 
was  pouring  with  rain,  I  gave  the  cabman  five  shill- 
ings. He  took  the  money  and  said  most  politely, 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  you  've  dropped  some- 
thing." "  Have  I?  "  I  said,  "  I  did  n't  notice,"  and 
commenced  to  search  in  the  mud,  the  pouring  rain 
absolutely  drenching  me,  my  silk  socks  and  my  dress 
pumps  being  immediately  wet  through.  "  I  think 
you're  mistaken,  cabbie,  I  can't  see  anything."  I 
kept  on  striking  matches,  which  the  rain  put  out. 
"  Anyway,  I  shall  give  it  up,  I  'm  soaked  through." 
The  cabbie  said,  "  You  must  have  dropped  a  shill- 
ing, sir,  for  you  only  gave  me  five."  I  wish  his 
fare  on  this  occasion  had  been  my  neighbour,  the 
late  Reggie  Wakefield,  a  jovial  gentleman  and  an 

35i 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

ex-amateur  champion  of  the  heavy-weights.  I 
asked  him  once  if  he  had  ever  had  trouble 
with  cabmen.  "  Never,"  he  replied.  "  No,"  I  said, 
"  I  suppose  you  overpay  them  more  than  I  do." 
"  Never,  you  bet,"  he  answered;  "  if  the  distance  is 
three  miles,  as  it  is,  from  Charing  Cross,  I  give 
them  one  and  sixpence."  "  Don't  they  swear?  "  I 
asked.  "  Never!  Wait  a  minute,  though,  I  remem- 
ber once  a  man  was  rude  to  me."  "  What  did  you 
say  to  him?  "  I  asked.  "  Nothing  at  all,"  said  Wake- 
field, "  I  reached  up  and  pulled  him  off  his  seat  and 
held  him  against  the  wall  till  he  apologised!  !  " 

Spiritualism  and  Spooks 

At  the  suggestion  of  many  friends  who  heard 
the  Old  House  was  haunted,  and  thought  it  would 
be  an  excellent  place  for  a  spiritualistic  seance  and 
materialising  of  spirits,  if  possible,  I  agreed  to  give 
a  dinner  and  to  engage  a  professional  medium  and 
have  a  seance  afterwards.  Years  before  I  had  at- 
tended many  of  these  gatherings  at  Mrs.  Kemmis 
Betty's,  Mrs.  Ross  Church's  ("Annie  Thomas"), 
Mrs.  Pender-Cudlip's,  and  also  at  the  Countess  of 
Caithness',  who  was  a  great  believer  in  spirits  and 
spooks,  and  at  many  others.  And  although  on  several 
occasions  I  admit  I  was  a  bit  alarmed,  1  never  saw 
any  spirits,  though  others  present  were  nearly  faint- 
ing with  fright  when  Kate!  Atmar!  and  Grimaldi! 
floated  past,  and  Egglington,  who  was  a  famous 
medium  at  that  time,  and  was  in  great  request  at 
these  gatherings,  begged  the  people  holding  his 
hands  at  the  table  to  "  let  go,"  as  he  was  "  going 
up."  We  were  all  in  total  darkness,  and  the  hostess 
352 


PART   OF   THE    MALI-   AT    NO.    I    BEDFORD   SQUARE 


SPIRITUALISM    AT   CANONBURY 

begged  those  on  either  side  of  him  "  not  to  detain 
him,"  and  off  he  went.  "  He 's  floating  round  near 
the  ceiling,"  someone  said.  "  I  hope  he  won't  break 
the  china,"  murmured  our  hostess.  (In  those  days 
it  was  fashionable  at  certain  houses  to  wire  and 
hang  up  on  the  walls,  plates,  dishes,  etc.)  There 
was  no  fear  of  that.  Egglington  wasn't  floating; 
he  was  hurrying  round  the  room,  shaking  the  cur- 
tains so  that  you  heard  the  rings  at  the  top  making 
a  jangling  noise.  By  this  time  a  couple  of  ladies 
had  fainted,  and  when  the  lights  were  relighted 
(there  was  no  electric  light  in  those  days  to  sud- 
denly trap  a  medium)  Egglington  was  seated  in 
his  chair  quite  exhausted,  apparently  recovering 
from  a  faint,  and  asking  "  where  he  was?  " 

I  had  quite  determined  that  "our  meeting"  at 
Canonbury  should  be  a  success,  and  although  I  had 
engaged  a  professional  medium,  in  case  she  failed, 
where  she  left  off,  we  must  begin,  and  I  laid  my 
plans  accordingly.  Fortunately,  in  the  Old  House 
there  was  a  secret  hiding-place,  a  small  room  only 
large  enough  to  hold  one  person;  it  started  at  the 
back  of  the  dining-room  mantelpiece,  the  only  en- 
trance to  it  was  from  the  coal  cellar.  My  friend 
Tom  Heslewood  had  explored  this  place  several 
times,  and  when  inside,  by  hitting  the  walls  with 
a  hammer  or  a  brick,  it  sounded  to  those  in  the 
dining-room  like  a  weird,  mysterious  rapping,  a 
long  way  off.  Heslewood  had  also  provided  himself 
with  a  long  greyish-white  costume,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  "  materialising  "  should  the  medium  fail  to 
raise  spirits.  I  could  n't  have  my  guests  disap- 
pointed! 

353 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

It  was  indeed  a  very  pleasant  party.  There 
were  about  sixteen  or  eighteen  of  us,  including  the 
beautiful  Edith  Chester  and  her  friend  Agnes 
Miller,  and  half  a  dozen  other  members  of  the 
fair  sex,  Lord  Kinnoull  —  who  was  then  Lord  Hay 
of  Kinfauns  —  Willie  Elliot,  and  several  other  dis- 
believers. We  started  the  seance  about  ten  o'clock, 
but  nothing  occurred.  The  medium  said  the  house 
was  beautifully  suited  for  a  seance,  and  she  had  seen 
several  ghosts  directly  she  arrived,  in  fact,  the  house 
was  full  of  them!  Things  seemed  hopeful  for  us 
—  all  she  required  was  sympathy  I  There  was  a 
little  too  much  frivolity  on  the  part  of  some  of 
the  guests,  especially  so  in  the  case  of  Lord  Hay, 
but  I  assured  her  that  it  was  his  natural  manner, 
his  high  spirits,  and  that  he  was  always  given  to 
hilarity,  but  was  as  ardent  a  spiritualist  as  myself, 
and  that  was  saying  a  lot.  Time  went  on  and  noth- 
ing happened,  though  Lord  Hay  said  he  fancied 
he  "saw  things,"  and  Elliot  heard  taps;  several 
believers  got  excited.  "  Is  that  you,  Kate,  tap- 
ping? "  said  someone.  The  medium  replied,  "No, 
I  don't  think  Kate  is  here,  it  must  be  Mispah.  He  's 
a  bad  spirit  and  does  us  no  good."  Presently  Hesle- 
wood  got  up  from  the  table;  he  said  he  felt  the 
heat  and  would  walk  round  the  garden.  No  one 
seemed  to  notice  his  going  out  of  the  French  win- 
dow that  opened  on  to  the  garden.  We  went  on 
with  our  work.  My  old  servant,  Smith,  entered  the 
room  to  bring  us  some  fresh  glasses,  but  I  requested 
him  to  leave  at  once,  and  taking  the  key  out  of  the 
door  from  the  outside,  I  locked  it  from  the  inside  — 
or  pretended  to  do  so  —  so  as  to  have  no  more  inter- 
354 


SPIRITUALISM   AT   CANONBURY 

ruptions.  I  gave  the  key  to  Willie  Elliot  to  show 
there  was  no  deception.  After  ten  minutes'  more 
waiting  the  medium  said,  "The  room  is  full  of 
spirits,"  and  she  anticipated  we  were  going  to  do 
good  work.  At  that  moment  there  was  a  sound  like 
distant  knocking.  I  recognised  that  it  was  Hesle- 
wood  in  the  secret  hiding-place  doing  his  part  of 
the  business  with  a  brick.  It  sounded  most  un- 
canny! Even  Lord  Hay,  the  sceptic,  was  a  little 
surprised  for  a  minute,  but  perhaps  not  much 
longer.  The  gas  was  turned  so  low  that  one  could 
see  only  about  a  foot  ahead.  Three  or  four  ladies 
became  alarmed,  but  I  begged  them  to  keep  their 
seats.  The  medium  declared  "  Atmar,  a  spirit," 
had  passed  behind  her  and  gone  up  the  chimney. 
The  knocks  continued,  growing  louder  and  louder, 
followed  by  a  groan,  which  sounded  hundreds  of 
feet  away.  Willie  Elliot  said  he  felt  a  bit  faint, 
Might  he  have  a  little  brandy?  He  felt  for  a  bottle, 
but  I  noticed  it  was  champagne.  I  said  we  had 
better  give  up,  as  several  people,  including  myself, 
were  feeling  a  trifle  nervous.  But  there  was  a  gen- 
eral wish  among  the  majority  to  continue.  The 
table  moved  and  jogged  a  bit,  especially  on  the 
side  nearest  Lord  Hay.  "What's  that?"  I  sud- 
denly said  to  the  medium.  "  The  door  is  open- 
ing, I  think,"  said  the  medium,  quite  delighted. 
"  That 's  impossible,"  I  said,  "  I  locked  it  myself." 
And  Elliot  said,  "  I  have  the  key."  "  It  is  open- 
ing," someone  said  in  a  trembling  voice.  There  was 
no  doubt  about  it;  dark  as  the  room  was,  one  could 
just  see  the  door  opening  very  slowly,  and  then  a 
little  grey  figure  entered,  as  if  on  wheels.  Presently 

355 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

it  rose,  and  as  the  medium  declared  afterwards,  "  it 
expanded  to  a  height  of  nine  or  ten  feet."  After 
gasping  for  a  few  minutes  I  rushed  to  the  window, 
dragging  over  the  medium  with  me;  in  fact,  we 
rolled  together  on  the  floor.  I  got  the  window 
open  and  turned  on  the  lights.  Elliot  was  on  the 
ground,  having  fainted,  and  Lord  Hay  was  giving 
him  some  brandy  and  bathing  his  forehead.  Almost 
immediately  afterwards  Heslewood,  with  a  terrified 
face,  came  in  from  the  garden  asking  what  was  the 
matter.  There  was  no  sign  of  the  spirit  and  the 
door  was  closed.  Elliot  went  to  unlock  it,  and  had 
some  difficulty  in  doing  so,  as  his  hand  shook  so 
violently,  and  the  click  of  the  lock  was  audible  all 
over  the  room  when  he  turned  it.  The  medium 
declared  that  she  had  never  been  in  such  good  form 
before  —  it  was  the  best  work  she  had  ever  done, 
and  she  had  had  many  fine  engagements,  so  she 
said,  with  "  the  best  people." 

A  Curious  Occurrence 

Mention  of  spiritualism  brings  to  my  mind  an- 
other incident  of  a  very  different  kind  to  the  events 
I  have  related  above.  I  offer  no  comment  and  no 
explanation,  as  I  know  of  none  —  I  merely  state 
what  actually  occurred. 

In  February,  1894,  I  produced  Arthur  Law's 
farce,  "  The  New  Boy,"  and  we  took  it  into  the 
country  for  a  fortnight's  trial  trip  before  opening 
at  Terry's  Theatre,  London.  I  refrain  from  saying 
where  the  following  incident  occurred,  as  it  might 
annoy  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel  at  which  Arthur 
Law  and  I  stayed. 
356 


ARTHUR   LAW    HEARS   THINGS 

After  a  very  satisfactory  dress  rehearsal,  which 
concluded  about  eleven  P.  M.,  I  was  returning  with 
Arthur  Law  to  our  hotel,  talking  earnestly  about 
our  prospects  of  success;  I  daresay  we  were  both 
strung  up  and  anxious,  as  we  both  had  a  great  deal 
at  stake  —  he  as  the  author,  I  as  the  manager,  pro- 
ducer, and  leading  actor.  We  turned  into  the  cir- 
cular drive  which  led  to  the  hotel  and  which  had 
very  thick  high  hedges  on  both  sides.  It  was  a 
lovely  night,  bright  and  frosty.  When  we  had  gone 
a  few  yards  we  heard  a  carriage  turn  into  the  drive, 
evidently  drawn  by  a  pair  of  horses  and  advancing 
upon  us  very  rapidly.  Almost  simultaneously  we 
seized  each  other  by  the  arm  and  drew  back  right 
into  the  hedge,  to  avoid  the  wheels  of  the  approach- 
ing vehicle,  saying,  "  Look  out,  old  chap,"  and 
"  Look  out,  Weedon,"  both  at  the  same  time  turn- 
ing in  the  direction  of  the  sounds,  which  were  now 
very  loud  and  close  upon  us,  but  to  our  utter  aston- 
ishment the  sounds  of  the  wheels  and  horses'  feet 
passed  on  and  died  away.  There  was  nothing  to 
be  seen,  not  a  sign  of  either  carriage  or  horses! 
There  was  no  wind  blowing!  We  looked  at  each 
other  blankly,  uttered  a  few  amazed  exclamations, 
and  covered  the  intervening  space  between  our- 
selves and  the  cheerful,  brightly-lighted  hall  of  the 
hotel  much  more  rapidly  than  we  should  otherwise 
have  done.  We  made  guarded  inquiries  then  and 
next  day,  but  a  certain  reticence  was  observable 
in  the  replies  we  got,  and  we  only  heard  that  there 
had  been  "  something  odd  "  there  at  "  some  time 
or  another." 

Whatever   it   was,   it   only   portended   good   to 

357 


FROM    STUDIO   TO    STAGE 

Arthur  Law  and  myself,  for  we  both  had  a  year 
of  solid  substantial  success,  which  commenced  the 
next  week  with  the  first  performance  of  "  The 
New  Boy." 

How  I  Saw  the  Boat  Race 

On  one  occasion  I  was  the  guest  of  my  old  friend 
the  late  Captain  Dean,  on  the  steam  launch  belong- 
ing to  the  Metropolitan  Police,  to  see  the  Oxford 
and  Cambridge  Boat  Race.  I  rose  at  an  unaccus- 
tomed early  hour  —  for  me  —  and  managed  to  get 
on  board  two  minutes  before  we  were  timed  to 
leave  Westminster  Pier.  There  was  a  large  and 
most  cheery  party  on  board,  and  I  found  lots  of 
friends  and  acquaintances.  The  wind  was  cold, 
and  a  slight  shower  fell;  it  was  probably  the  cause 
of  some  of  us  going  into  the  cabin  and  remaining 
there,  where  we  were  extremely  comfortable  and 
very  merry.  Presently  I  emerged  from  this  pleas- 
ant retreat;  the  sun  was  shining  and  there  was  a 
hum  of  excitement  everywhere.  Captain  Dean 
said,  "  Fine  race,  was  n't  it,  Weedon?  "  "  What?  " 
I  said  blankly,  thinking  I  had  not  heard  him  aright. 
"Fine  race!"  he  repeated.  "Oxford  was  never 
behind/" 

Max  O'Rell  and  Mark  Twain 

About  17  years  ago  I  was  sitting  in  the  lounge 
of  an  hotel  at  Broadstairs  after  dinner  enjoying  a 
cigarette  and  thinking  of  nothing  at  all,  when  who 
should  suddenly  appear  before  me  with  extended 
hand  but  Max  O'Rell,  with  the  usual  remark  when 
one  man  meets  another  at  a  seaside  hotel,  "  What 
358 


MAX   O'RELL   AND    MARK  TWAIN 

are  you  doing  here?  "  as  if  one  was  there  under  false 
pretences.  I  explained  I  was  "  resting,"  which  is 
English  for  "  an  actor  out  of  work."  Max  O'Rell 
told  me  he  was  lecturing  throughout  England  and 
was  delighted  at  the  success  he  was  having.  During 
our  conversation  to  my  astonishment  who  should 
enter  the  lounge  but  Mark  Twain.  I  jumped  from 
my  seat  and  grasped  him  firmly  by  the  hand,  wel- 
coming him  to  England  and  exclaiming,  "  Who  do 
you  think  is  here?  Max  O'Rell !1 "  Twain  looked 
a  little  embarrassed  and  replied,  "  I  don't  think  we 
know  each  other."  "  Very  good,"  I  said,  thinking 
he  was  pulling  my  leg,  "  then  I  '11  introduce  you. 
Max  O'Rell,  permit  me  to  introduce  you  to  Mark 
Twain  from  the  other  side  of  the  pond.  He  writes 
books!  Twain,  this  is  Max  O'Rell.  He  lectures 
as  well  as  writes  books,"  and  then  I  laughed  at  my 
own  joke.  They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  few 
moments  without  speaking  or  moving,  and  I  began 
to  realise  that  something  was  wrong  and  that  I  had 
somehow  put  my  foot  in  it,  when  simultaneously 
they  extended  their  hands  and  Twain  said,  "  Gross- 
mith  's  done  it!  "  and  Max  O'Rell  answered,  "  And 
a  good  thing  too!  "  and  they  shook  hands  most  heart- 
ily. They  told  me  they  had  quarrelled  some  years 
before  about  a  trifling  matter  and  had  been  es- 
tranged ever  since.  They  both  seemed  delighted 
to  put  an  end  to  their  grievances,  and  I  never  saw 
two  better  friends,  and  need  hardly  say  how  de- 
lighted I  was  that  my  apparently  tactless  behaviour 
had  been  the  means  of  their  burying  the  hatchet 
and  renewing  their  old  friendship.  They  thanked 
me  for  bringing  them  together  again,  and  sug- 

359 


FROM    STUDIO   TO   STAGE 

gested  that  we  should  smoke  a  cigar  and  stroll 
about  in  the  open  air  and  enjoy  the  sea  breeze,  and 
I  knowing  the  country  better  than  they  did  sug- 
gested a  walk  along  the  cliffs  to  the  right  of  the 
hotel.  Mark  Twain  walked  in  the  centre,  Max 
O'Rell  on  the  left  side,  nearest  to  the  edge  of  the 
cliff,  and  I  was  on  the  inside.  I  never  saw  two 
men  so  engrossed  in  each  other's  conversation: 
they  were  evidently  making  up  for  many  years  of 
silence  and  were  thoroughly  happy,  and  I  con- 
tented myself  by  listening  to  them,  for  I  could 
only  get  a  word  or  two  in  occasionally. 

Although  I  was  the  means  of  bringing  these  two 
great  men  together  I  was  also  very  nearly  the 
means  of  terminating  their  existence  altogether,  for, 
as  Willie  Elliot  discovered  to  his  own  personal  in- 
convenience some  years  ago  while  walking  with 
me,  he  left  the  pavement  and  was  in  the  gutter, 
owing  to  my  being  a  "  crab."  I  had  never  heard 
the  expression  before,  but  it  means  a  person  who 
has  the  unfortunate  habit  of  walking  with  a  ten- 
dency towards  the  left  and  unconsciously  push- 
ing people  into  the  gutter  or  against  a  wall,  and  the 
night  being  dark  none  of  us  knew  we  were  on 
the  very  edge  of  the  cliff  until  Max  O'Rell  uttered 
an  American  expression  accompanied  by  a  wild 
jump  forward  clutching  Mark  Twain  by  the 
shoulders.  It  was  then  I  discovered  that  I  had 
"  crabbed  "  them  to  the  extreme  edge  of  the  cliff, 
and  another  half  a  dozen  inches  would  have  sent 
these  two  famous  wits  sixty  feet  down  on  to  the 
rocks  below!  I  I  have  never  allowed  myself  to 
remember  Mark  Twain's  language:  Max  O'Rell's 
360 


THE   FUTURE 

comments  passed  over  my  head  —  I  am  not  pro- 
ficient in  the  French  language. 

My  brother,  Gee-Gee,  before  starting  for  his  first 
visit  to  America,  made  a  will,  and  announcing  this 
fact  to  the  assembled  family,  said,  "  I  have  left  all 
I  possess  to  my  wife  and  my  four  children."  My 
youngest  niece,  Cordelia,  then  a  child  of  seven, 
looked  up  anxiously  and  said,  "  But  what  about 
poor  uncle?"  She  is  now  the  wife  of  Mr.  Fred- 
erick Turner,  an  architect,  and  author  of  promise. 
My  elder  niece,  Sylvia,  is  married  to  Stuart  Bevan, 
the  well-known  barrister  and  "  canooser."  I  don't 
regret  giving  up  painting  or  going  on  the  stage. 
My  motto  is  "  Nothing  Matters." 

During  the  time  occupied  in  writing  these  pages 
many  dear  friends  have  passed  away.  That  of 
course  is  natural  in  the  passage  of  Time!  The  past 
is  gone,  but  I  am  sure  everyone  has  the  satisfaction 
of  looking  back  to  some  happy  days,  no  matter  how 
hard  their  life  may  have  been,  —  but  it's  gone  I 
There  is  practically  no  present!  its  flight  is  too  rapid 
to  chronicle.  But  there  is  a  future.  At  least  that 
is  the  happy  and  hopeful  belief  of 
Yours  faithfully, 

Weedon  Grossmith. 

So  are  we  downhearted?    No!  1  !    Next,  please! 


361 


INDEX 

Titles  of  plays  in  italic  type 


Abingdon,  William,  348 

Abud,  Charles,  203-205 

Actors,  Amateur,  181 

Adventure  with  Tottie  Fay,  144-150 

Albery,  James,  235 

Alexander,  George,  179,  181,  183,  224 

Amateur  actors,  181 

Amazons,  The,  213 

Amber  Heart,  The,  174 

Among  the  Brigands,  296 

"Angling,"  Blakey  on,  104 

Antique  furniture,  123-135 

"Art  of  Angling,"  by  Best,  104 

Aunt  Jack,  185,  198-199 

Autograph-hunting,  23 1 

Avon,  The,  109 

Aynesworth,  Allan,  185,  197, 208,  350 

Baby  Mine,  345,  347,  348 

Backers,  304-322 

Barbel  fishing,  113 

Bargain  hunting,  123-135 

Barrington,  Rutland,  54,  66,  113 

Bartlett,  8-12 

Baxter,  28-29 

Beauchamp,  John,  215 

Beefsteak  Club,  263-266 

Belle  Bellair,  224 

Bells,  The,  178 

Best's  "Art  of  Angling,"  105 

Bigg,  Heather,  109-112 

Billy  Rotterfora"s  Descent,  296 

Billy's  Bargain,  299,  300,  302 

Blakey  on  "Angling,"  104 

Blyth,  Lord,  228,  230 

Boat  Race,  358 

Bogus  antiques,  124 

"Bone,"  32 

Boucicault,  Dion,  213,  291 

,  Nina,  223,  303 


Bourchier,  Arthur,  273 

Bowden  House,  Totnes,  327 

Bower,  George  Spencer,  67,  109 

Boyle,  Freddie,  331 

Bradford,  335 

Bram  Stoker,  181,  183 

Brandon,  Jocelyn,  214 

,  Thomas,  39,  88,  152-155,  158, 

I93>    l97>   200-202,   208-211,  226, 

268 
Buller,  Sir  Redvers,  268,  269 
"Bullock,"  215 
Bush,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Montagu,  327 

Cabinet  Minister,  The,  196,  220 

Canonbury  House,  189,  353 

Carey's,  3 

Carson,  Murray,  300 

Caruso,  323 

Caste,  162 

Cecil,  Arthur,  38,  185,  197,  208,  212 

Cecil,  Lord  Edward,  331 

Champignol  malgre  lui,  213 

Charley's  Aunt,  226 

Cheiro,   223 

Chester,  Edith,  158,  204,  354 

"Chesties,"  128,   129 

Chetwynd,  Sir  George,  263-265 

Chippendale,  126-128,  131 

Christie,  James,  32 

Chudleigh,    Arthur,    185,    212,    224, 

290-292,  330 
Cider  at  the  "Beefsteak,"  264-266 
Clay,  Cecil,  151,  157 
Cockney  Sportsmen,  255-261 
Cohen,  Isaac,  253,  254 
Collins,  Arthur,  280-284,  289 
Commission,  A,  203 
Cork,  Lord,  328 
Coutts,  Compton,  208,  212 

363 


INDEX 


Cowper  at  OIney,  43 

Craven,  Lord,  160,  330 

Cremorne  Gardens,  137 

Cromes  and  Constables,  98,  99 

Crusaders,  The,  207 

Cure,  The,  301 

Curzon,  Frank,  291,  292,  295 

Dawson,  Forbes,  116-118 

Dobree,  J.  H.,  90-96,  101,  257-259 

Dobree,  Mrs.,  97-100 

Doll-painting,  37 

"Doubling,"  30 

Douglas,  Earl,  IOI 

D'Oyly  Carte,  66,  88 

Drew,  John,  263,  264,  349 

Druce,  Duncan,  299 

Druce,  Hubert,  274,  292 

Drury  Lane,  280-289 

Du  Val,  Claud,  245-247 

Dudley  Gallery,  34 

Duffer,  The,  292,  341 

Duke  of  Killicrankie,  290,  29 1 

Early  Worm,  The,  302,  303 
Eckhardstein,  Baron  v.,  327,  328 
Edwardes,  George,  163,  165,  203 
Eldon,  Lord  and  Lady,  50 
Elliot,  W.  G.,  153,  158,  212,  213,  354- 

356,  360 
Elstrcc  fishing,  106 
Englishman's  Home,  The,  303 
Ewhurst,  38,  67 

Fellow-students,  32 
Figure  models,  40,  41 
Fildes,  Sir  Luke,  89 
Fireworks,  191-193 
Fishing,  43,  102-122 
Fitzroy  Street,  36 
Forbes  Dawson,  116-118 

,  Robertson,  32,  54 

Foster,  a  model,  39,  40 
Free,  Richard,  259-261 
French  Rock,  6 
Frith,  W.  P.,  3 
Furniture,  Antique,  123-135 

364 


Ganthony,  Robert,  238,  239 

Garrick  Club,  329,  330 

Gee-Gee.    See  Grossmith,  George 

George  Junior,  317,  318 

"George,"  the  Lion,  275-278 

Giddens,  George,  38,  273 

Glad  Eye,  The,  303 

Good  for  Nothing,  204 

Goodall,  Fred,  28 

Gower  Street,  50,  82 

"Great  little  Robson,"  206 

Grossmith,  George,  23-26,  45,  114, 
115,  188,207,333,361 

Grossmith,  Lawrence,  303 

Grossmith,  Wecdon:  —  Carey's,  3; 
first  joke,  3;  French  Rock,  6;  in- 
troduction to  Bartlctt,  8-12;  Simp- 
son's, 13-26;  a  corner  in  marbles, 
15;  tarts  and  tuck  shops,  15-18; 
smoking,  19-22;  banking,  23-26; 
first  studio,  36-49;  painting  Dolly, 
37;  chat  with  Foster,  39,  40;  mod- 
els, 40-42;  a  spoilt  joke,  44-47; 
injured  innocence,  47-49;  dentis- 
try, 50-53;  a  football  dinner,  57- 
59;  an  evening  at  the  "Wells,"  60- 
61;  hooligans,  62;  R.  A.  dinner,  63; 
Frank  Holl  and  others,  64-70; 
portrait  painting,  77-84;  the  Do- 
brees,  90-101;  Cromes  and  Con- 
stables, 98-100;  "The  Solitary 
Vice,"  102,  103;  misleading  books, 
104,  105;  Reservoirs  at  Tring,  107, 
108;  Heather  Bigg's  pipe,  112; 
pike  and  perch,  113-116;  "Ye  an- 
tique shoppc,"  124;  Chippendale 
and  Heppelwhite,  125-135;  Cre- 
morne, 137;  "fast"  resorts,  138- 
141;  meeting  Tottie  Fay,  144-150; 
arrival  in  New  York,  156;  Vokes' 
Dude,  159;  return  to  London,  162; 
"Woodcock,"  163-167;  with  Irv- 
ing, 170-180;  lion-taming,  181— 
183;  Canonbury  House,  189;  fire- 
works, 191- 193;  "Till  the  Laves 
are  off  the  Threes,"  200-202;  May 
Palfrey,  206;  a  borrower,  209-211; 
married,    216;   Cheiro'a    prophecy, 


INDEX 


223;  a  barometer,  230,  231;  auto- 
graphs, 231,  232;  a  Savage  joke, 
238,  239;  shooting  with  Dobree, 
257-259;  Who  fired?  260,  261; 
a  merry  supper,  263-266;  stored 
scenery  and  insurance,  269-271; 
an  effective  photograph,  276-278; 
rehearsals  at  the  "Lane,"  283-289; 
a  conspiracy,  296-298;  the  dummy, 
299;  "Theresa  and  Percy,"  323- 
325;  haunted  houses,  326,  327; 
death  of  George  Grossmith,  333; 
impressions  of  Sheffield,  Bradford 
and  Birmingham,  334-336;  "star- 
ring" in  the  provinces,  337_3445 
Canadian  hospitality,  346,  347;  a 
seance,  352-356;  a  "crab,"  360; 
Next,   please!   361 

Groves,  Charles,  213,  252 

Guardsman,  The,  212 

Harley  Street,  65,  76 
Harrison,  Frederick,  294,  295 
Harvey,  Martin,  174,  179,  224,  267 
Hatton,  Joseph,  243-245 
Hawtrey,  Charles,  168,  169,  283,  294, 

295 
Hay,  Lord,  354-35°" 
Hayes,  Claude,  27,  57,  58 
Heather  Bigg,  109-112 
Heilbut,  Sam,  220,  323,  324 
Heppelwhite,  128 
Hertford  Castle,  325,  326 
Heslewood,  Tom,  191,  192,  293,  353- 

356 
Hicks,  Seymour,  330 
Highwaymen,  243-254 
Hind,  Captain,  245,  246 
Holberton,  Mr.,  44-47 
Holl,  Frank,  34,  64,  65,  68,  88,  121 
Hopkinson,  Mr.,  291 
Hyde,  John,  259-261 

Illington,  Marie,  291,  295 
Injured  innocence,  47-49 
Irving,  Henry,  66,  108,  142,  170-183, 
253 


Jeffreys,  Ellis,  213,  224,  262,  273 
Johnson,  Sir  J.  H.,  69,  70,  274,  275 
"Jolly  James  Christie,"  32 

Keeley,  Mrs.,  244 

Kemble,  Henry,  208,  294 

Kincaid,  67,  68 

King,  The  late,  160,  227,  228,  295 

Kingston,  Gertrude,  204,  206,  293 

Lady  of  Leeds,  The,  291 

Lady  of  Ostend,   The,  262,  263,  266- 

267 
Lady's  Idol,  The,  216 
Lancashire  Sailor,  The,  203 
Law,  Arthur,  214,  216,  223,  356,  357 
Lawrence,  Ewretta,  241,  242 
Leighton,  Sir  Bryan,  346 

,  Sir  Frederick,  39,  63 

Lewis,  Eric,  116,  185-187,  199 

Lion-taming,  181,  182,  183 

Little,  C.  P.,  204,  206,  212 

Little  Dodge,  The,  224 

Lohr,  Marie,  213,  293 

Lovell,  Tom,  296-298 

Lowe,  Mrs.,  325,  326 

Lucas,  Seymour,  R.A.,  33,  38-39 

"Lumbering,"  204 

Macaire,  Robert,  170-179 

Macbeth,  183 

MacIIaggis,  The,  226 

Macquoid,  Percy,  R.A.,  33,  252,  323- 

325 
Magnay,  Sir  W.,  67 
Man  from  Blankley,  The,  294 
Mansfield,  Richard,  183,  184 
Mark  Twain,  359,  360 
Marshall,  C.  E.,  125,  127,  128 

,  Capt.  Robert,  290,  291 

,  E.  A.,  32,  42 

Mathison,  Arthur,   235-238 
Matthews,  Charles,  167,  168 
Maude,  Cyril,  168,  208 
Maynard,  Richard,  318-320,  343 
McKinnell,  Norman,  285,  286 
Michael,  Edward,  228,  229,  317,  318 
Millais,  39 

36S 


INDEX 


Milliner's  Bill,  The,  158 

Miss  Francis  of  Yale,  226 

Models,  40,  41 

Mollentrave  on  Women,  188 

Monckton,  Lady,  207 

Montreal,  346. 

Morton,  Charlie,  221,  222 

Mr.  Preedy  and  the  Countess,  302,  347 

My  Soldier  Boy,  262 

Nevison,  William,  245,  246 

New  Boy,  The,  207,  214,  356 

New  Sub,  The,  204 

Night  of  the  Party,  The,  273,  274,  313 

Noble  Lord,  The,  273 

Norman,  E.  B.,  227 

Odell,  E.  J.,  233,  234 
O'Hagan,  Mrs.,  67,  181 
Old  Homestead,  The,  347 
Old  London,  244 
Olney,  42,  125,  126 
"One  Night  Stands,"  157 
O'Rell,  Max,  358-360 
Other  Fellow,  The,  213 
Ouse,  The,  43 

Pacey,  George,  113,  114 

Palfrey,  May,  204,  206,  207,  215,  223, 

252,  274 
Pantheon,  The,  164 
Pantomime  Rehearsal,  The,  158,  162, 

203,  208,  212,  267,  272 
Parvenu,  The,  156 
Peile,  Kinsey,  321,  322 
Penley,  W.  S.,  225,  226 
Pickwick,  239 
Pinero,  A.  W.,  196,  197 
"Plans,"  The,  43 
Playfair,  Arthur,  227,  294 
Pond-making,  189-191 
Poor  Mr.  Potton,  216 
Portrait  painting,  78-82 
Pot-boilers,  36 
Prince  Carl,  184 
Proctor,  236 
Provinces,  The,  334-336 
366 


Quiet  Rubber,  The,  162 

R.  A.,  32 

Rehearsing  Macaire,  170-175 
Reservoir  fishing,  106 
Roberts,  Arthur,  240,  241 
Robertson,  Forbes,  32,  54 
Romance  of  a  Shopwalker,  The,  223 
Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstein,  204 
Royal  cigar,  A,  228,  229 
Rutland  Barrington,  54,  66,  113 

Sadlers  Wells,  60,  106 

Sala,  George  Augustus,  64 

Sans  Souci,  327 

Savage  Club,  The,  232-239 

School  for  Scandal,  184 

School  Mistress,  The,  162 

Schools  of  Art,  27,  34 

Seymour  Lucas,  R.A.,  33,  38,  39 

Shades  of  Night,  290 

Sheffield,  334   . 

Sheppard,  Jack,  243-245,  309-311 

Shooting  stories,  255-261 

Simpson's  School,  13-21 

Smoking  in  school,  18 

"Solitary  Vice,  The,"  103 

Somerset,  C.  W.,  285,  286,  294 

South  Kensington  Art  Schools,  27,  32 

Spiritualism  and  Spooks,  352-356 

Spoiling  Dolly,  37 

St.  Osyth,  69 

Stage  fright,  175 

"Starving,"  338~34° 

Stavely,  W.  R.,  156,  161,  162 

Stoker,  Bram,  181,  183 

Stone,  Willie,  273 

Storey,  Waldo,  263,  264 

Suffolk  St.  Gallery,  34,  35 

Superstition,  198 

Sweet  Nell  of  Old  Drury,  272 

Tarts  and  tuck  shops,  15-18 
Tatler's  Club,  271 
Tempest,  A.  Vane,  208,  292 
Terriss,  Ellaline,  204,  212-214 
Terry,  Fred,  224,  271,  272 


INDEX 


Thomas,   Brandon.      See    Brandon, 

Thomas. 
Thompson,  Denman,  347 
Thorne,  Tom,  108 
Time  will  Tell,  152 
Tinted  Venus,  The,  152 
Titheradge,  Madge,  300 
Toole,  J.  L.,  38,  66,  91,  108,  253,  275 
Tottie  Fay,  144-150 
Tree,  Beerbohm,  185,  295,  325,  329 
Tring,  107 
Turpin,  Dick,  246-251 

"Upper  Life"  at  art  schools,  34 

Fan  Dyke,  The,  295 
"Voices'  Dude,"  159 
Vokes,  Rosina,  151,  152 
Volcano,  The,  198 


Wakefield,  Reggie,  351,  352 

Ward,  Leslie,  331,  332 

Wealth,  185 

Webb,  Walter,  38,  67 

Webster,  Sir  Augustus,  217 

Weedon  Grossmith.  See  Grossmith, 
Weedon 

Weedon  Grossmith,  Mrs.  See  Pal- 
frey, May 

West  London  School  of  Art,  27 

White,  Lady,  222 

Wood,  Mrs.  John,  185,  197-199,  224, 
301 

Woodcock's  Little  Game,  163-166, 
168 

Woodcote  Prince,  227 

Wyndham,  Sir  Charles,  179,  329 

Young  Mr.  Yarde,  262 


367 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Book  Slip-35m-9l'62(D2218s4)4280 


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